Just Let it Happen
by La. Bel. LM
Summary: For once in her life, Hermione Granger is faced with a problem that she does not know how to solve... COMPLETE.
1. Beginnings

JUST LET IT HAPPEN

SUMMARY: Seventh year for Hermione, and her studies take a turn for the unexpected. Severus Snape becomes the dominant authority to which Hermione's academic mind swears fealty, and the obstacles he means to throw in her path will be many and difficult. Hermione's struggles, however, will soon transcend the walls of Hogwarts as her dark, taciturn Professor is grudgingly forced into accepting the role of protector. Protector being a relative term. Hermione does her fair share of saving an ungrateful life as well.

DISCLAIMER: Just for fun.

A/N: I understand that the whole "private lessons" thing is absurdly over-used, and perhaps lost some of its magic in this regard, but I beg of you to bear with me. I always do my best to keep things as fresh and surprising as I possibly can.

A/N(2): I also hope, due to the ungodly length of this story, to have achieved some manner of character progression throughout. Hermione has always seemed (to me at least) mature, intelligent, passionate, caring - and, I think it's safe to say, quite emotional at times. She is also young and relatively inexperienced in the world of, for want of a better word, romance. In short, it is not an accident that Hermione may exhibit behavior that borders on girlish or temperamental at the beginning, because the intention is that, through the long haul of this particular adventure, she achieves some manner of emotional growth.

The same goes for Snape - though his progression will, I am certain, not come off quite so dramatically or obviously as Hermione's. And anyway, I have always felt for some reason or another that this fic is really Hermione's story. Even though we get a great deal of insight into Snape's world and how he sees it.

In any case, as stated in the disclaimer, this is all just for amusement and delight! And I sincerely hope you have just as much fun reading as I had fun writing.

THANK YOU SO MUCH.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Severus Snape stifled a yawn as he stacked his paperwork into neat, albeit precariously balanced piles on top of his desk and put away his favorite quill. Easing himself out of his armchair, he took a moment to indulge in a languid stretch, stubbornly ignoring the twinge of discomfort in his back that immediately followed. Years of bending over cauldrons had finally managed to catch up with him it seemed, and sitting at his cramped little desk for hours on end no longer agreed with him in his...

_Old age_, he finished with disgust as he methodically returned books to their shelves and caps to their ink bottles. _Damn it_.

It had been a long day.

To begin with, Severus had spent most of first period dousing cauldron fires for imbecilic First Years, only to be later chastised by Minerva for what were, as she deemed, "unjustifiably harsh criticisms." At lunch, he had done nothing but sit in pensive silence at the staff table, minding his own business, when Hooch's little bitch of a Peregrine Falcon decided to gobble up his last piece of toast from right underneath his unsuspecting nose. Hooch had laughed and ruffled the bird's feathers with a sickening degree of affection, while Severus stared incredulously down at his empty plate. And while this had not been an altogether _extraordinary _act of malice on Hooch's part, Severus was still rather upset over the flight instructor's appalling lack of table manners.

However, hands down, the most taxing event of the day had arrived outside his laboratory door promptly following dinner, all wrapped up as usual in her various red-and-gold-colored clothing assortments, beaming like a buffoon, and asking more questions than any person had a right to wonder.

Tonight had been his very first two-hour session with Hermione Granger, an exercise that only served to confirm how deeply he wished to strangle the tenacious little twit. How his colleagues managed to stomach her incessant yammering day after day, he hadn't the faintest idea. She was exhaustive and batty, stubborn in all the wrong ways. No matter that she was graduating in only a year, Severus wanted her gone _now_.

Though…

There was something to be said for horrors unrealized. In all honesty, their lesson had not been as entirely unbearable as he initially anticipated. For, while it was indeed true that Hermione Granger continued to remain ever-insufferable and a shameless, know-it-all show-off to boot (as was her nature, no doubt, she had emerged from the womb as nothing less), she put on a good show of listening attentively. She never needed to be told anything twice, and she seemed able to grasp a concept almost before Severus could finish proposing it. Furthermore, he was very nearly impressed with her knowledge of the history and theory behind the craft of potion-making itself, rather than simply the names of the ingredients and their individual properties. Exhaustive, yes. But, tenacity had its uses, particularly in the study of this subtle and dangerous craft.

Admittedly, these attributes also served to make the girl twice as annoying as usual. There was only so much noise he could take from one person, after all. But Severus thought that if things continued to progress as they were, he might be able to survive the rest of the semester. Or, at the very least, manage to refrain from putting the girl through a wall.

And yet... _Why?_ Potions. Granger. A girl of passing intelligence, this he could not deny, but she had a sweet temperament, one bathed in a haze of stupefying optimism and aggressive naivety. Potions was a devious art, full of shadows. Such deep wells of dark powers were not meant to intrigue those pure of heart. Yet, here they were anyway, Granger and Potions: Here _he_ was, haplessly stirring them together in his very own laboratory with a nonchalance that would put the likes of Lockhart to a test of idiocy. What had possessed him to think that taking her on would somehow bypass this inevitable catastrophic calamity that seemed to be looming now, vaguely, somewhere in the not-so-distant future? Just the thought of a faithful flunky of Wonderboy Potter flittering around in his personal stores was enough to bring bile to the back of his throat. But, persistence was not an unfamiliar concept to one such as Granger: Every single day, at the end of class, she had come to his desk with over-flowing book bag slung over her shoulder and Potions text in hand. She had gazed dolefully up at him with those stupidly big brown eyes and begged him to give her private lessons: "_Please_, Professor Snape, it would only be once a _week_," and, "Oh, _please_, I would really like to get my Masters in Potions like _you_, but I need more _experience_."

Perhaps his irritation caused Severus to exaggerate, upon reflection, the pathetic nature of her whine a bit more than was fair… Still. Even without exaggeration, the constant sound of Granger's voice was enough to make him want to grab an enormous pair of cymbals and start madly bashing her head between them.

Maybe this was the reason he had finally given in. His poor grated nerves had simply thrown in the towel and said, "Fuck it, Severus — give the damn girl what she wants, and then at least the spectacle will cease."

Then again, perhaps deep down he had taken Granger on because he could honestly use the extra pair of hands.

Either way, it hardly mattered now. What was done was done, and there was little he could do about it. Though he could not seem to banish this feeling of blistering injustice that, despite it all, he would not be receiving a single knut for all that trouble.

Certainly, he recognized how uncouth his colleagues would find him if he dared to demand money from a student in order for him to do a job that he was already "technically" being paid to do. But it wasn't as though he were rolling in Galleons or anything. The only recompense he was sure to receive for his efforts were Minerva's prickly, disgruntled looks, telling him just how much she appreciated him exploiting her precious little prodigy.

Hard be it for the fickle old woman to imagine that it actually _wasn't _his life's ambition to ruin the future of Hermione Granger.

_Though perhaps worth a passing effort_, he thought with an amused grunt.

Severus then reconsidered for a moment. Did Minerva see him as _exploiting_ the girl or _adopting_ her? Students like Granger were exceptionally rare, and it was with glowing pride and joy that Minerva found this particular academic juggernaut in her own House, someone she could guide and groom and stroke to greatness. Perhaps the idea that Severus might be the one to whom Granger now looked for guidance was what stoked the old woman's fury - the idea that Severus might ultimately get credit for this girl's eventual success (whatever that success may turn out to be).

Severus flicked his wand as he left the room, the numerous candles on the walls sputtering faithfully out behind him.

As he prepared for bed, one last question still remained lodged and unanswered in the back of his head. Why? Why did Granger all of a sudden wish to become a Potions Mistress? Granted, she made decent marks in the subject (a _great _vexation, as he always did his best to ensure that no Gryffindor had a shot in hell of scraping any manner of admirable mark in his class), but it wasn't as though she had ever seemed particularly keen on the darker arts.

Severus gave an uncharacteristic sigh as, at last, he slipped into bed and buried himself beneath the thick duvet. It _had _been a long day, and trying to puzzle out the madness behind the madness of Hermione Granger only seemed to be making it longer. So, closing his eyes, and allowing himself to sink slowly into his mattress, Severus vowed solemnly not to think again about said know-it-all until at least the next morning.

He cracked an eyelid and glanced at the clock, the hands of which plainly indicated that it was well after four.

_Bloody hell and damn it all._

And with that last thought, Severus rolled over on his side and promptly went to sleep.

* * *

"_Voluntarily,_ though. Extra lessons. With Snape. I mean _voluntarily..._" Ron was making his thoughts known for what seemed like the hundredth time that morning as Hermione munched cheerily on a slice of buttered toast and read _The Prophet_'s daily headlines.

"Isn't class enough?" Harry muttered into his pumpkin juice. "There is a masochistic streak in you that baffles me sometimes, Hermione."

"Stop it," Hermione snapped. "And, if you please, that's _Professor _Snape to the both of you." She shot a disapproving look at them from across the table.

Ron did not answer. Instead, he shoved another spoonful of porridge in his mouth and proceeded to chew around a heavy scowl.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Even with us? Honestly, why do you always..." He squinted suddenly and, using his breakfast spoon for emphasis, pointed at her accusingly. "You've been acting strange this week. Haven't got a temperature, have you?"

Hermione batted his spoon away with the end of the folded newspaper. "I am in perfect health, Harry, thank you." She wiped her mouth delicately on a red and gold fringed napkin, then reached over and used her fork to retrieve another omelet from the platter in the middle of the table. She took a moment to wrinkle her nose at Seamus Finnegan, who was currently drowning his own plate of eggs and sausages in a growing pool of ketchup.

This was disconcerting to Hermione — the fact that Harry had noticed something "strange" about her. She had thought her efforts thus far to appear normal had been mostly successful, if not admirable. But it was hard to get perspective. It was hard to tell what was different or strange in her behavior when she wasn't used to studying herself.

Then again, her keen sense of reason had admittedly not been up to snuff lately — this owing to the fact that she spent the majority of her time feeling very… confused. Emotionally, hormonally, monumentally confused. All of this with origins she had a hard time locating.

When she thought very, very hard on the subject, and if her brain was in a particular state of calmness, she was able to track it all back to where it must have begun — which was, as with most things, at the beginning: The very first day she had met him (this man, this professor, this cause of all things disconcerting).

Tall, dark, sinister, fierce and imposing, powerful, brilliant, Master in his field. As an eager young student, bedazzled by the wonder and glamour of a new world, those words had come easily to Hermione when she first glimpsed that intimidating figure striding so boldly through the classroom doors. Those words were the very essence of her first impression of Severus Snape, and a strong impression it was to be sure. So strong, in fact, that despite the man's perverse cruelty over the years, it had managed to imprint itself deep into her subconscious mind. Somehow that image of dauntless perfection had remained buried within her, hidden away behind a thick layer of forced indifference. She had successfully ignored it for a long time, forgotten it even, and yet, somehow, it stayed, quiet but persistent, lurking, waiting for a moment to break free again. For there was no denying that it had been trapped; so many walls had been built since that first day — walls of anger, of betrayal and hurt. All of those feelings had come together to form a sort of impenetrable forcefield around that initial image of divine cleverness.

Now, somehow, over the last year, those rigid walls had disappeared.

She had no idea if this had happened all at once, or gradually over time, the point of it was, the walls were gone, reduced to nothing more than a crumbled heap of ill-humor and bruised pride. She used to be able to look at Snape and feel nothing but indifference, occasionally anger or a profound sense of injustice. Now when she looked at him, she felt half-blinded by that initial, striking impression. It was that collective core, that _aura _of shrewd awareness and confidence and steely intelligence that seemed to radiate so fiercely from him now — an aura that never failed to give her delightful little shivers down her spine.

_Why_ did it give her shivers? she wondered. And what did those shivers even mean? Hermione had been cold before — shivered from a frosty wind, shivered from fear, shivered from anticipation. But this was none of those things. She wasn't cold. She was, perhaps on occasion, a little afraid (not _that _afraid), and she never anticipated anything from Snape beyond dark looks, an occasional sneer, and a plethora of thinly-veiled insults. This new shiver was something else entirely and she had no idea where to categorize it in her mind. Nothing about this made the slightest bit of sense.

Another cause for concern was what exactly had demolished those carefully constructed walls of hers in the first place. Could it have been a specific event? Or did the barrier simply deteriorate on its own? Worn slowly away by the occasional (yet forceful) waves of awe and admiration he sometimes inspired in her. But, most importantly, why, Hermione obsessed, _why _couldn't she just leave him alone? Ignore him like she used to. She was no longer able to just bow her head and read her textbook, lose herself in diligent study. He was magnetic now, like an electric charge that hummed quietly from wherever he stood in the room. Why did she all of a sudden find this impulse to watch him out of the corner of her eye irresistible? Or the need to impress him even greater than it ever had been before? None if it made sense, and that did not sit well with Hermione, for she did not know where to turn in order to puzzle it all out.

Who knew if this feeling was even attraction. Was it him as a person that appealed to her (though 'person' was rather a relative term), or was it the position and power he held? Was what she was feeling normal? Was it okay? Who could possibly understand what she was going through if she couldn't even understand it herself?

While Hermione made valid attempts at convincing herself that what she was feeling was, at most, just a passing infatuation with the man's intelligence, she equally understood that whatever this ridiculous emotion was, she needed to get it under control, and soon. She couldn't have a crush on Snape — he was a Hogwarts professor! And a bastard besides.

Her reasoning therefore, was this: A person could never make an accurate analysis of something until they had all the facts. Therefore, Hermione's first objective was to do what she did best. Research. Then, once she had all the information (though she was not quite sure what sort of information she was looking for in this situation), she could piece everything together and draw some notion of a coherent conclusion.

That was her analytical approach, anyway.

Her other approach, her emotional approach, was perhaps a bit more unorthodox. Although this one, at least, provided a much more immediate solution.

Instead of trying her best to stay away from Snape and hope that this unwanted emotion faded on its own, Hermione decided to exploit the man's biting personality by spending more time with him rather than less in the hopes that her heart would soon realize what a twisted pain in the side he really was and leave her alone. She hoped that perhaps she could replace that initial image of dauntless perfection with something a bit less… admirable.

After her first couple of lessons in Snape's gloomy dungeon — all of which were awkward and sometimes downright miserable — Hermione found that her theory proved to be outstandingly wrong. This was through no lack of trying on Snape's part, however. Even after she had proved herself innumerable times, showing him that she was not your average anything-to-scrape-by Gryffindor chest-thumper, and that she could indeed _bubble a cauldron _just as well as any Slytherin, he still continued to treat her like an ignorant child. (And if there was anything that Hermione hated most, it was being treated as though she were ignorant).

Yet, in a twisted way, the fact that Snape knew her greatest peeve and wielded it for all it was worth also gave Hermione a glimmer of encouragement. Perhaps that proved that her emotional approach wasn't too far off after all. Maybe she just needed to keep on with her lessons, and her hatred for the bitter and prickly man would eventually overcome the infatuation.

Yes, keep on with the lessons — that sounded like as good a plan as any.

* * *

It was quiet as usual in the cold, dark dungeon, with the exception of the soft scratching of Snape's quill and the gentle hiss of the simmering cauldron Hermione was so intently bending over.

_When the outer rim turns green, add the ginger root_, she recited mentally to herself, trying not to be distracted by the constant tapping of her professor's booted toe. _There it goes. Quickly._ With a swift proficiency, Hermione scraped the finely cut roots off her cutting board and into the cauldron, where the paper-thin slices disintegrated almost instantly. _Turn blue, turn blue,_ she silently urged it. _Turn blue, turn_— "Yes!" she squealed as the bubbling liquid turned a pleasing shade of navy.

"Pardon?"

Snape's voice startled her and she whirled around, her elbow catching the edge of a finely made crystal container of Armadillo bile, which toppled almost apologetically off the table. With a swoop of her arm and a sigh of relief, Hermione caught it and set it tenderly back on the counter, deeply grateful it had not broken. She knew only too well how mortifying it was to drop a valuable ingredient in Snape's presence.

"Oh, nothing," she replied, forcing nonchalance, hoping that he had been too engrossed in his paperwork to witness her near accident. "That is, it seems that the first stage of the burn salve extract is nearly finished."

"You needn't inform me when something is _nearly_ finished, Miss Granger," Snape stated bluntly (and rather nastily, Hermione thought). He finished grading a paper with what looked like a depressingly extravagant 'D' and transferred it into the steadily growing stack of papers at his side which each bore such a flourishing letter upon them. "_Nearly _will never get you anywhere." He glanced up briefly to scowl her way before turning back to his Fourth Years' essays on the applications of Billywig Stings, and resuming his furious, yet admittedly elegant, scrawling.

"My mistake," she said lightly, determined not to let him bother her.

Normally, Hermione would have been thrilled that Snape was in such a foul mood, as that would mean almost no work on her part in trying to goad him into rudeness, but she had been having a good day thus far, and for once she would actually like to concentrate on a lesson instead of wasting time attempting to sabotage her heart. _Urgh, how revolting_, she thought to herself with disgust, and then suppressed a giggle at what she imagined Ron's expression might be if he heard her talking like this.

Her life, it seemed, had become quite the soap opera. Well, in her own head at least.

Hermione hummed lightly as she stirred the burn salve extract, which was beginning to form itself into a thin, cream-like paste. She was in fact unaware that she had been making any noise at all until Snape slammed his palm down on the table and startled her once again out of a reverie.

"_Would you desist_," he hissed.

"Yes, alright," Hermione replied, a little stung despite herself. "No need to get snippy," she added in an undertone.

"What was that?"

A sigh. "Oh, nothing."

Snape made a sharp noise of disbelief and returned to his papers, once again grading with such fury that Hermione thought it a wonder he didn't rip straight through the parchment. She watched the curve of his slender hand as it gripped the quill, and found herself, quite unexpectedly, wondering what his skin felt like. Was it warm like hers? She had always imagined his skin feeling cold, like marble or a smooth metal. But obviously he was every bit as much a human she was (physically speaking anyway, she was not entirely sure what qualified in terms of moral fiber), and he certainly had veins, and blood, and a pulse just as she did, so surely he—

"Eyes on your cauldron, Miss Granger," Snape said suddenly without looking up.

Hermione frowned and shook her head, mentally urging herself to get a grip. She turned back to the salve and resumed stirring in a rhythmic, clockwise motion, repeating the instructions in her head over, and over, and over, and over…

* * *

It was not long before Hermione's lessons grew steadily less awkward, and she eventually found herself forming a genuine interest in her new studies.

She also came to find that her dark and brooding professor was aptly titled Potions Master, for he was wickedly cunning and so intelligent that she often had conversations with him that she did not fully understand until days afterwards. (Though she presumed that unwarranted insults lay beneath just about everything he said to her).

Another revelation Hermione discovered about her professor, and to her great surprise, was that he did a great deal of potions-related work in his spare time that had nothing to do with either teaching or personal experiments. St. Mungo's owled Snape at the first of every other week with a long list of of cures and remedies in need of replacement, after which he would singlehandedly brew, bottle, and send back each one within the confines of fourteen days (sometimes more when the potion required a longer time to make). And what was most surprising of all, was that he, Severus Snape, was never paid a single knut for all that trouble.

Despite herself, Hermione was impressed.

Of course, Snape hardly went without making his few extra Galleons. He was also entangled in a rather important-sounding deal with the Ministry. A deal that consisted of experimenting with potions that might counter a particularly bad hex or make the drinker invisible — in short, anything to help an Auror in action. This, he was paid very handsomely for.

Prior to these lessons, Hermione would have been staggered to think that she might learn this much about the morbidly secretive Professor Snape. However, when a person spends as much time with the man as she did, there are some things that simply cannot be kept hidden. He had owls flying in at every turn of the head, screeching and fluttering as they swooped down through a specially created pipe that led like a chimney to the outside. In fact, the owls were usually in such a rush that they would oftentimes mistakenly deliver their burden directly to Hermione. In every such event, Snape would instantly snatch the letter away, glaring daggers at Hermione as though it was her fault the owl had become confused.

It was during just such an accident, when Snape, by chance, was not in the room, that Hermione finally had a chance to see the Ministry seal on the envelope, as well as the enormous bag of galleons attached. Confused at first, not only because of the money, but also because the only letters Hermione had seen prior to that were from St. Mungo's — letters with order forms she had become entirely too familiar with, as Snape had recently taken to letting her deal with those relatively unsupervised. At first, she had figured that these solo assignments were a reward, a show of confidence in her growing medicinal skills. Then she began to get the feeling that Snape simply did not seem to think those letters quite as important. And when the first Ministry bird arrived, Hermione immediately realized why.

In any case, Hermione's lessons continued. Soon, she and the Professor progressed to the point where long silences were comfortable rather than awkward, and most of the time they would go the entire two hours without saying more than three words put together.

This should have made Hermione furious. After all, was she not supposed to be hating him by now? Instead, it made her happy, and she truly began to enjoy her time in the dungeons. These lessons were arguably more exciting than any of her other classes.

Until now, she had never had the opportunity to work so intimately with such powerful ingredients and concoctions. It was a thrill she had never fully been granted, and she charged it as one of the greatest highs she had ever experienced. The closest she had come to anything of this nature was the Polyjuice Potion that she had brewed for Harry and Ron in their second year. Even then, Hermione had found it almost below her skill level.

Now, at last, she had thousands of ingredients at her fingertips, and hundreds of books detailing every facet of fascinating potion imaginable, the likes of which made her head spin with ambition, determination and excitement. At last, she had found something to test her knowledge.

And, most unfortunately, her patience as well…

* * *

"Not like that, like _this_. Foolish girl, do you mean to ruin it entirely?" Snape snatched the ladle out of Hermione's hand and proceeded to stir the plum-colored potion in what was _apparently _the appropriate manner (which honestly did not look very different in Hermione's opinion). Though a second later proved that she was indeed mistaken, and she felt her ears burn as Snape went on to explain.

"The angle of the wrist is very important, Miss Granger, I know I've told you before. See how I turn it out rather than in?"

Hermione nodded, intrigued despite her irritation at being caught doing something wrong.

"I cannot hear your head rattling, Girl, speak up."

She jumped. "Oh, yes. Of course. I see."

Snape gave her an irritable look and shoved the ladle back into her hand. "I have other matters to attend to, so I'll trust you to finish up." He sneered. "Assuming you can bother yourself to remember even the _simplest_ wisdoms of the lesson. You did say you wanted to learn, did you not? I can only do my share of the work, Granger, and if you cannot keep pace, if I am indeed wasting my time, do be kind enough to let me know. I'd rather we set you up in a study room with a kiddie cauldron and a reading list and be done with it. Speaking of—" Snape pointed toward his desk. "I have written out another list of sources for you to research in the coming week. If you are unable to secure the books I have set, you needn't trouble yourself pursuing this charade any further. Either you are capable of the work or you are not. There isn't room in my schedule for mediocrity. And I am ill suited to excuses."

Hermione glowered as Snape left the room, resisting the strong urge to pick up the bowl of frog eyes next to her and hurl it as hard as she could at the back of his head.

A moment later however, she found herself smiling, and she turned back to stirring her potion with renewed zeal (though she paid particular attention to how her wrist was angled).

_If that's any indication_, she thought proudly, _things are well on track. Well done, Hermione._

Or so she thought, anyway.


	2. Sleepless Nights

**Chapter Two**

The heavy boxes in Hermione's arms wobbled, teetering dangerously as she worked her way down the stepladder. Upon reaching the bottom, she looked nervously up at the top box to make sure that none of its contents were threatening to fall out. Then, she slowly began her backwards walk towards Professor Snape's desk.

"To the right, Miss Granger. More. No, now that's too far. Back up. Are you listening to me? I said, to the _right_."

Had Hermione not been so intent on avoiding what was certain to be a very nasty tumble, she might have fired back with a retort, so dearly did she wish to _strike_ the man. However, the concentration required for her task was too great, and she therefore forced herself to rely on the professor's directions - which, though derisive, proved helpful enough to navigate her across the room. He did, however, fail to tell her when to stop.

Hermione grunted as her back made hard contact with the edge of Snape's desk and she heard what she could have sworn was an amused chuckle behind her. She whipped her head around, her eyes blazing. But the professor seemed as intent as ever on his work, his face blank as stone.

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Hermione refrained from comment and instead dumped the heavy boxes onto Snape's desk with such violence that his inkbottle upset itself all over his papers. The bottle emptied its contents with three small _glugs _before rolling off the side of the desk and shattering into a shower of tiny pieces on the floor. Hermione gasped and looked fearfully over at Snape, expecting a thunderous reaction. To her immense surprise, he did not appear to have noticed anything at all.

Hermione watched with wide, unblinking eyes as Snape continued grading, seemingly uninterested in the pool of ink that was now percolating through the entire top half of his parchments.

"Professor?" she said quietly, her irritation with him suddenly forgotten.

He shushed her and continued writing.

Hermione glanced back and forth between Snape's face and the ruined papers. The ink was now starting to soak through one of his sleeves, but he didn't so much as bat an eyelash. Even when it began to bleed into the path of his next sentence, Snape continued to write on through it as if nothing were there.

"Professor?" Hermione said again.

He did not answer.

"Professor Snape." She reached out to shake his shoulder, and yet could not quite will herself to touch him. "Professor!" she said loudly, her hand still hovering. "Are you listening? Professor, can't you see the ink? Professor! Professor! Are you listening? Professor! Pro–"

Hermione woke with the bright, morning sun shining directly in her eyes. She groaned, rolling over and burying her head beneath her pillow.

It was Saturday.

* * *

Severus groaned inwardly as he saw the old woman approach, her back ramrod straight and a customary pucker in her thin lips.

"Severus," she greeted him tersely, "I thought I might find you wandering around down here."

"I was not _wandering_, Minerva. I hardly ever _wander_."

Minerva cocked a pencil-thin eyebrow. "Well, then, by all means, what were you doing?"

_Wandering_, Severus thought to himself with a mental grimace, though he obviously refrained from articulating it. "Was there something in particular you wished to discuss, Professor?" he countered coldly.

"Yes, I wish to address the particular circumstances now binding one of my students to a life of–"

"Miss Granger, I presume?" he interrupted.

The corner of Minerva's mouth twitched. "Yes. Miss Granger, indeed."

"And what is it, exactly, that you wished to address about Miss Granger's _circumstances_?"

"I thought it appropriate to bring to your attention that the Holidays are upon us. And I am certain that you are aware the student workload tends to accumulate in such times."

Severus nodded. "Naturally."

"And seeing as some of the students, Miss Granger in particular, are, in my opinion, already biting off a bit more than they can chew, I thought you might consider–"

"Easing up on your poor protégé? Not on your life."

The elderly witch made no response, but Severus could very nearly feel the ice frosting from her glare.

"If Miss Granger wishes to earn her Masters in Potions," he continued, "then she must be prepared to put forth the work. I am hardly just going to hand her an Academy recommendation without–"

"Severus," Minerva snapped, her knobby fingers flexing involuntarily — as though she were itching to place them around his neck. "I am not implying that you should _just hand her _anything. For Merlin's sake, I am merely asking you to be considerate of, if not her mental health, then her physical one." She gave her head a frustrated shake. "There are simply not enough hours in the day, I tell you, and she is still only a child–"

"Who has all the appearances of being perfectly healthy. I sincerely implore you, Minerva, with all due respect, _not_ to attempt to dictate to me again how I should go about instructing my students. No matter how incompetent you think they may be of keeping up with their assignments."

"In–_Incompetent_?" Minerva stammered in furious disbelief. "Surely you don't think that Miss Gr—"

"I hardly ever approach _you_ and make suggestions about assignments you should or should not give, or what changes _you _should make to your weekly lesson plan. Is it so unfathomable to expect the same courtesy in return?" Severus quirked an eyebrow. "No, I will not lighten up on her, nor any of my students. Life is hard, as you and I know only too well, and the sooner they all come to terms with that the better off they will be."

McGonagall stared at the man in front of her and failed to assemble an appropriate reply. He was somewhat correct in that children who learn early on to find their independence, and to learn the benefits of relying upon themselves, were usually more likely to succeed later in life. However, she did not agree that this meant torturing them into an early grave.

But, she knew that there was nothing she could say to convince him otherwise. In fact, she had probably only succeeded in making things worse for poor Miss Granger by bringing to Snape's attention the fact that he legally _could _torture her into an early grave.

"Is that all you wished to address, Professor?" Severus said abruptly. "As much as I value our fascinating little chats about the erroneous, nonsensical details of the day-to-day lives of our students, I do have other places to be."

Minerva shook her head again and turned to go. "Why do I bother?" she muttered. Yet as she walked away, she found herself loath to leave Severus with such a victory. "Happy wanderings, Severus," she said loudly over her shoulder and nearly smiled as she heard him grumble darkly at her retreating back.

* * *

Ginny's jaw cracked as she yawned on her way down the spiral staircase for a glass of water. She paused as she heard the familiar sound of a furiously scratching quill and cocked her head curiously. Having a hard time believing that anyone would be up at four in the morning (and much less writing avidly), Ginny skipped the last few steps and stumbled into the dimly lit common room to be met with a dishearteningly familiar sight:

Hermione sat in a red, plush armchair, all but buried beneath a mountain of loose parchment. She had her nose nestled between the dusty pages of an enormous textbook, and, as usual, she seemed to be taking notes.

Holding her finger in place on the page, Hermione turned to scribble something down on the roll of parchment she had balanced precariously on the arm of the chair beside her.

Ginny cleared her throat and Hermione jumped in surprise, puncturing a hole through the paper with her quill.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" Ginny demanded sharply.

Hermione sighed and crumpled up the parchment she had just ruined, then pulled out a fresh one and recommenced her mysterious task. "Homework," she said simply.

"The last Friday before the Holidays?" Ginny put her hands on her hips and gave her fellow Gryffindor a confounded look. "Hermione Granger, you couldn't possibly have left something to the last minute, could you? Even _Ron_ has finished all of his work for the week… Which, now that I think on it, doesn't make sense because he usually copies off–"

"Me. Yes, he did do that. But this isn't exactly _homework_ homework – I mean it _is _homework – but – well, it's for Professor Snape, and those extra lessons I've been telling you about. For some reason he has really started to pile it on this week. Something about 'life is hard', I don't know. He's probably just got himself all twisted and cranky because the holidays are almost here and he won't be able to boss me around for a few weeks."

Ginny made a clear noise of disgust. "And what are you going to do, just lay down and take it?" She walked over and attempted to wrest the Potions book from Hermione's hands (who held on with surprising strength for someone so tired).

"No, Ginny - Honestly, now, I - Ginny, for Heaven's sake -"

Soon realizing that she was fighting a losing battle, Ginny eventually gave up and plopped down on the ground next to Hermione's chair instead, heaving a tired sigh. "Alright then, have it your way. See if I visit you when they cart you off to Mungos..." She yawned again, then looked up at Hermione (who was already flipping through her book again, in search of where she had left off). "What is he making you do, anyway?" she asked, wishing she could somehow Apparate back into bed.

Hermione began and then immediately finished a sentence with an angry scribble. "It's _quite_ ridiculous!" she said, gesticulating a bit too emphatically and accidentally sending her quill flying across the room. (She made no immediate move to retrieve it). "He says that I'm required to 'research' my projects, even when I already _have_, of course, exhaustively so. Even when I've told him as much. But he won't hear of it. And all this is — All he wants me to do is just… rewrite the text into different words. As though I'm a _toddler_ or something, and can't understand the material correctly. I have half a mind to magic up an exact copy of the book, march it to Professor Snape's office, and tell him to shove it!"

Ginny grinned and clapped her hands. "That's the spirit!"

Hermione's demeanor changed almost immediately. "Only," she sighed, "I don't want him to think I'm lazy." Then she snatched up her wand and _accioed _her quill back into her hand, once again burying her nose into the pages of her book.

Ginny shook her head. "Who are you trying to impress, Hermione? What are you trying to prove? Everyone in the whole ruddy school knows you're the brightest witch to be admitted in decades. Even Snape. He just likes being a wanker too much to admit it."

Hermione hid her blush behind a well-timed yawn. "I appreciate that, Ginny, honestly. All I can say is that... I'm really not doing this for anyone but myself. I know it's hard for any Gryffindor who has suffered through a class with Professor Snape to imagine, but Potions is actually a very interesting subject. I'm genuinely starting to enjoy it. It's exciting and often dangerous. Besides, if I ever want to go into any sort of work with the Ministry — ideally I'd like to be able to jump-start a new branch related to S.P.E.W., and then, of course, move on to other things once that's gained momentum, because who can really know what — er — Anyway, this class with Snape will probably be my best ticket in. The Ministry is surprisingly lacking in competent Potions M—"

"Alright, alright, alright, do what you want," Ginny said abruptly, using the armchair to pull herself up. "I'm going back to bed."

Hermione nodded and sighed, too exhausted to care about being interrupted. She still had twenty more pages to go before morning.

* * *

Severus' mouth twitched as an enormous stack of parchments was suddenly dumped directly on top of his desk, inches from the book he was currently reading. He looked up to see Hermione Granger smirking back at him, albeit with markedly visible circles under her eyes.

"What, may I ask, is this?" he sneered, gingerly sifting through the topmost documents.

"Research, sir," she replied promptly, "for the project you authorized last Tuesday. You said I could begin it today."

Severus narrowed his eyes at the mound of completed work in front of him, unbelievably irritated that she had somehow managed to accomplish all of it in less than two days. He doubted even he at her age would have possessed such singleminded determination.

As for that damned project of hers, he vaguely remembered consenting to her query of beginning it on Friday, but he hadn't thought she would actually be prepared for it in any acceptable capacity. There were things he still wanted her to _do_. The St. Mungo's requests, for instance, had been steadily piling up over the past two weeks and he had his own personal projects to worry about.

Severus cursed inwardly as he realized yet another blunder he had so uncharacteristically committed. He had been so preoccupied with filling out his Ministry requests, and assigning extra homework before the holidays, and giving Granger what he was so deliriously certain was work for a month, that he had neglected to order her necessary supplies. Ones that he had secretly been exhausting himself over the last few days, doing research of his own.

So, feeling ever more irresponsible by the second, Severus carefully straightened the parchments in front of him and handed them back to the expectant girl. "My apologies, Miss Granger," he began icily. "I seemed to have underestimated your… enthusiasm for study. I had not expected you to complete your tasks with such _reckless_s peed."

Granger smiled tiredly, apparently unaffected by the barbed compliment. "That's alright, Professor," she said. "Even I had my doubts at times. But it's all done now." She moved the stack of parchments to the crook of her arm. "If you're busy at the moment, I can begin to prepare the ingredients. I doubt I need supervision for things like arranging cups and measuring powder."

Severus resisted the urge to fidget uncomfortably. _He _was the Professor for Merlin's sake! She should be squirming under his gaze, not him under hers. She should feel lucky that he even let her pursue the project in the first place, much less consent to its eventual creation.

With that thought in mind, Severus commenced the appearance of reading his book. "You could indeed begin preparations," he said distractedly. "Though that might prove marginally difficult when the ingredients have not yet arrived."

Severus withheld a wince as he heard the sound of hundreds of parchments fluttering to the floor.

"They _what_?" she squeaked. "You — you said you had them already. You said I could start today. I haven't slept in a _week_, Professor! How could you make me kill myself like that when _you _didn't even take the responsibility to—"

Severus snapped his book shut with such vigor that Granger actually jumped in surprise.

"Do not _begin_ to think you can patronize me, you stupid girl," he thundered, standing to give himself the full advantage of his rather intimidating height. "You are here only under my charitable whim and I assure you that you can leave it just as quickly as you entered. That's fifty points from Gryffindor for mouthing off to a professor, and if I hear one more complaint from you it will be _one hundred _and fifty." He took a calming breath. "Now," he said, sliding back into his chair and smoothing his anger down just as a bird would smooth its ruffled feathers, "you have two options. You can pull yourself together, get a proper hold on that nasty temper of yours, and stay for the remainder of your lesson… or you can pack your bags and never return."

Severus was very nearly doing a victory jig in his head as Granger gaped at him, mouthing speechlessly as though a fish on dry land.

"Well," he said after a short time when she still had not procured an answer. "Do let me know when you've figured it out." And with that, he flipped open his book again and lost himself with in the text, knowing full well that the girl probably had black murder blazing in depths of her eyes.

And yet, it thrilled him to acknowledge how very little he cared.


	3. Tempers That Scald

**Chapter Three**

It was a long time before Severus heard movement again from Granger. She had yet to voice a reply, but he figured that rather wise, as he was confident that anything she had to say would earn her a year's worth of detentions.

Severus again suppressed the urge to fidget when Granger stooped down on all fours and crawled underneath his desk as she attempted to gather up her scattered papers. He had always withheld a sharp fear of threats he knew were there but could not see, and the fact that this "threat" was nothing more than a particularly high-strung seventeen-year-old girl did nothing to ease his conscience.

Something brushed his leg and he jerked violently in surprise, realizing only too late how much that undermined his usual stony temperance. He braced himself for a comment from the girl. Yet she remained mute. So, with every sense still acutely attuned to Granger's movements, he once again turned his eyes to the book before him — on which he had yet to make more than a paragraph's progress.

Seconds later, Severus watched with his peripheral vision as Granger at last completed her task and clambered to her feet. He fully expected her to storm off in some manner of a huff (after all, even he had to admit that she had adequate reason), but she did not move. She simply stood by his desk, quiet, and unmoving.

"Take a seat, Miss Granger," he said after an uncomfortable pause.

Surprisingly, she obeyed, turning at once and walking slowly towards her customary desk.

Feeling mysteriously disappointed by her lack of defiance, Severus looked up with a sneer. "I have an errand to run," he said after her, "and in my absence, if there are any orders that you think are beyond your, I stress, _novice_ skill level, I implore you to await my return before blundering forward and consequently blowing yourself up."

Severus heard her mutter something under her breath. "What was that?"

She gave him a scathing look over her shoulder. "I said, how kind of you to express such concern over my well-being."

"Yes, well, you _are _working in close proximity to some rather expensive stores, Miss Granger. Most of them I would have a great deal of difficulty replacing should they break or be damaged in any way."

Granger rolled her eyes and resumed the walk towards her desk. "Good to know, Professor. If my cauldron does explode, I will be sure to aim my body towards a vacant stretch of wall for it to splatter on."

Severus scowled mightily at her back as he began to gather up his things, just barely holding back the urge to needle her with a detention for her cheek, (even though he knew very well that he had intentionally provoked it). He watched as Granger threw her papers on her desk in a childish tantrum, subsequently knocking a small jar of Armadillo Bile onto the floor. The fine glass shattered and she cursed colorfully, swooping down to rescue it with her wand.

Severus's frown turned immediately into a smirk as he stood and strode across the room to the door. He turned the handle, and, just before disappearing into the hall, paused to say over his shoulder, with as much amusement in his voice as he dared, "Five points from Gryffindor."

There was a sharp thunk. Severus turned to see Granger still sitting on the floor, holding her head where she had obviously banged it on the underside of the table. The sight sent a shiver of amusement through his spine, and he barely withheld a chuckle.

Perhaps these lessons did have an upside, he thought to himself. After all, what could provide him with more satisfying, not to mention free, entertainment than provoking a helpless Gryffindor nitwit? Especially when said Gryffindor nitwit was someone as unfathomably irritating as Hermione Granger.

"I will return shortly," he said. "And _do _try not to break anything else until then." That said, Severus stepped boldly across the threshold and into the hall, closing the door firmly shut behind him. He paused just long enough to hear an answering crash from inside the room and then he walked away, laughing to himself all the way to the owlery.

* * *

Hermione was so livid after cleaning up the shattered jar of Armadillo Bile (which she had purposefully thrown this time), that all she could do was sit moodily in her chair and glare a hole through the St. Mungo's list on the table in front of her.

She wanted revenge. Yes, revenge. Sweet, juicy, glorious revenge.

Aside from one particular incident involving the ever inquisitive Rita Skeeter and a very small glass jar, Hermione had never really been one to "get a little of her own back" whenever she was wronged. But this was the last, the _last_ straw, dammit. She was not going to bend over and take it like this anymore! Professor Snape might have had the upper hand by being her teacher, but she had the upper hand by being an imaginative and resourceful girl with plenty of mischievous ideas and plenty of mischievous friends to help her accomplish said ideas. Already she was beginning to assemble the plans for her first bit of retaliation. She assumed that with more time she would eventually come up with many and perhaps more impressive plots—however this particular one she had in mind would take some effort to put together, and would have to wait a while before the time was right to pull it off. She was without a doubt that it would all be well worth the effort, and in the meantime, if other opportunities presented themselves… well, she might just be up to seizing them.

So, mildly comforted after reaching such a bold decision, Hermione rubbed her eyes tiredly and finally managed to set herself to work. Her brain seemed alert at first, the attributes of the ingredients and exactly what to do with them coming easily to mind. She even managed to keep herself in marginally good spirits by borrowing a bit of defiance from Eliza Doolittle and singing a rousing round of "Just You Wait Severus Snape" in her head. The image of said Professor drowning and yelling for a doctor while she was out shopping did absolute wonders for her mood.

Eventually, though, her thoughts began to slow and her movements became more sluggish and clumsy. She gave up trying to imagine Professor Snape groveling on his knees while the Queen of England ordered him beheaded, and focused instead on, as _he _had put it, 'not blowing herself up.'

She could think of nothing more embarrassing than Professor Snape coming back to find that she had absentmindedly melted her cauldron.

* * *

Severus scribbled a hasty signature at the bottom of the order form and sent it on its way. _There go your bloody ingredients, Granger_, he thought to himself as he watched the tawny owl make a wide circle around the Astronomy Tower. Then, satisfied, he turned and began to make his way back to the dungeons, where he hoped Granger had managed to make at least a sizable dent in the latest St. Mungos order.

Severus ended up spending a great deal more time completing his "errands" than he had initially anticipated — owing to the dealings of an unfortunate Hufflepuff and his astoundingly unlucky placement of a dungbomb. By the time he had removed the stench from the fourth floor corridor and left the student responsible squared away with weeks of detentions (and a hefty chunk taken from what little hope their House had of winning the cup), it had been at least an hour.

_Wretched girl. She had bloody well better have something to show after all that time._

Especially now that her ingredients were on the way.

The thought of being able to return guiltlessly to ordering Granger around again lightened Severus's mood considerably. Not that his guilt had been more than a trifle in the first place; he simply felt better knowing that he once again held all indisputable power. In fact, he felt so much better, that he did nothing more than clear his throat and glare knowingly when he caught an unsuspecting Ravenclaw couple behind a suit of armor on the second floor. They scampered away so quickly, one might have thought he'd set fire to their robes.

This rare state of mind changed abruptly for Severus, when he reached his destination and found out exactly how much progress Granger had made. Which, unfortunately for both of them, turned out to be not very much.

Severus stood in the doorway, infuriated by the scene before him, (though in hindsight, he probably should have at least taken such a possibility into consideration).

Hermione Granger lay heavily across her desk, her arms sprawled to either side and her hand sill limply clutching a drooping quill. Her face was turned towards him and the corner of Severus's mouth twitched as he saw how her cheek was squashed against the tabletop, causing her lips to part slightly as she puffed out her tiny breaths.

After a short moment of indecision he finally closed the door very quietly behind him and slithered stealthily across the room to examine her cauldron. It was empty. He peered over her elbow at the papers beneath her and frowned as he noticed that she had not made more than a page's worth of progress on her notes.

Severus's first thought was to shake her rudely awake and demand that she stay an extra hour to complete the work she had been assigned. Then a new plan started to form in his mind, and his mouth once again turned into his customary smirk.

* * *

Hermione gave a soft moan of discomfort as she began to wake. Her neck ached terribly as though she had been sleeping with her head twisted to the side (which, a moment later, she immediately realized that she had been). Then she moved her hand and felt a strange surface beneath her fingers that was vastly different than the anticipated softness of her polyester bed sheets…

All at once Hermione sat up with a sharp gasp, sputtering and flailing around for a moment when the parchment she had been resting on stuck to the side of her face. She couldn't believe it, she had fallen asleep! And right there at her desk, how embarrassing. She looked wildly around for a clock. How long had she been out? She prayed that it hadn't been more than a few minutes.

Suddenly Hermione froze as she caught sight of her professor, sitting coolly behind his desk, his steely gaze fixed unflinchingly upon her.

Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat.

"So nice of you to join the rest of the waking world, Miss Granger," Snape said, still staring at her, his hands folded casually on the table in front of him.

"I... er..." She cleared her throat. "H-how long have I been... What time is it?"

"Near enough to curfew that you should probably run if you wish to make it to your dormitory in time."

It took a moment for Hermione to actually process this information and then she realized with a jolt that she had been asleep for almost _four hours_! And... how long had Snape been there? Why hadn't he woken her up?

Furiously, Hermione tried to scramble all her scattered thoughts into a heap again. What did this mean? How much trouble was she in? And more importantly…

"What about dinner?"

Snape stood and grabbed a jar off his desk, walking it over to a row of well-loaded shelves and placing it snugly in its place. "Elaborate," he replied after a pause.

Hermione watched him through a narrowed, suspicious expression. "Well, if we are as close to curfew as you say we are, then it must have _happened _at some point…"

"Astutely observant, as always, Miss Granger. Yes, dinner fell at just about the same time that it usually does."

A spark ignited somewhere behind Hermione's eyes. "But — I didn't — You must have seen — Do you mean to tell me that you just sat here and chuckled to yourself while I missed dinner, Professor? You just — you just _sat _here!" Deep down, Hermione knew that of course it was absurd to get so upset over a simple, missed meal. But the way that Snape's eyes glinted with amusement and the way the corner of his horrible mouth turned up into that smug little sneer, made her feel as though he had sentenced her to a life of starvation.

Snape raised his dark eyebrows at Hermione's tone, though otherwise did not make any other sign that he noticed anything remarkable about her behavior. "Don't be ridiculous, Miss Granger," he said coolly, "I certainly did not _just sit here_." His mouth twitched. "I sat in the Great Hall, like every other conscious being in the castle. Understandably, I was not about to miss _my _dinner."

Hermione let those words sink in for a minute, let them permeate through her skin and prickle slowly through her body. She let the cruelness of it wash through her, feeding her hate with every second that ticked by.

Professor Snape, however, seemed perfectly oblivious to this dangerous change in mood. "At this point," he continued, still half a smirk away from looking sickeningly pleased with himself. "It would be most prudent for you to pack up your things and go directly to your dormitory. It is now after curfew and you are still out of bed, which means that you will, of course, be serving detention with Filch as soon as I can arrange a date. Out of my sight, Granger. I expected better of a Seventh Year."

Then that was it. All of a sudden Hermione felt that tight cord inside her, that tight, thick cord that always seemed to be holding her anger in check, snap with an almost audible pop. She gave a shriek of outrage and picked up the closest thing she could find, which was her enormous pile of meticulously printed research, and dashed it all to the floor at his feet. Somehow she also managed to get a hold of an inkbottle and the instant she realized it was in her hand she threw that too, directly on top of the scattered papers. The ink splattered everywhere and Hermione spared a quick, malicious prayer that it had somehow managed to reach the professor's robes.

Then, before Snape could even utter a word, Hermione scooped her book bag off the back of her chair and stormed out of the room, slamming the door as hard as she could behind her.

She barreled down the hall, clutching her bag tightly to her chest as white-hot tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Her vision was soon so blurred that she could barely even see the steps beneath her feet as she reached the staircase. Heedless of this, Hermione ran as fast as she could up flight after flight on her way to Gryffindor Tower. Then, finally, after a particularly bad stumble that took the breath from her and grated her shins horribly, Hermione dashed angrily at her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. She made one mighty struggle to push the tears and hysteria to the back of her head. Even that brief effort made her feel terribly nauseous and her chest ache as though it might explode from the pressure of it all. It really _had_ been a long time since she'd slept.

With a deep, shuddering breath, Hermione slowly commenced her ascent to Gryffindor Tower, repeating to herself over and over again that she was stronger than this, that she shouldn't let him bother her so. She could begin her project next week, when the proper ingredients had arrived. She would just have to wait—that was all. No problem.

The moment she reached the next landing, her empty stomach gave a horrible twinge and the injustice of it all washed over her again afresh. With another furious wail she swung her book bag as hard as she could at the marble banister. Then she swung it once more, just for good measure, just for the heck of it, just because she felt like it, and vowed that if it was the last thing she ever did, she would show that horrible, malicious, ungrateful, infuriating, _hateful_ man!**  
**


	4. Giant Mistakes

**Chapter Four**

That night was the first in which Hermione walked in her sleep. Or, at least, it was the first night she noticed. There was every possibility that she had roamed around the castle as an unconscious zombie before, and had simply woken the next morning none the wiser.

This morning, however, she noticed.

When she first awoke, her entire body seemed to ache from exhaustion. It took a few moments before she could muster up the will to open her eyes - though, when at last she did, she immediately wished she hadn't. Surrounding her bed was what appeared to be a crowd of whispering, giggling, First and Second Year Gryffindors (boys included!), all of whom were staring at her intently.

"Wh-what are you doing in my bedroom?" Hermione started to say, rubbing at her eyes groggily. Then, as she looked blearily around, she discovered something else rather odd.

"Oh!" Hermione sat up with a gasp, at last aware that what she was currently looking at was not the familiar red cotton of her bed curtains. "Oh," she groaned again as she glanced around and found herself sprawled, rather ungracefully, smack in the middle of the Gryffindor common room floor.

Well, not the middle exactly…

"Would you mind moving? We have projects to check on in Green House Four before breakfast and you are blocking our exit."

Hermione scrambled to her feet, too mortified to register the young girl's snippety tone. Struck by another realization, Hermione looked down and felt her cheeks burn as she confirmed that she was indeed wearing her baby blue flannel nightgown (complete with miniature bows and a rather frilly collar). She flushed all the way from the tips of her hair down to her thick, woolen socks. "I–I–I," she stammered helplessly as they all filed past her and out the Portrait hole, a few of the girls giving her very odd sideways looks and bending their heads together to whisper quietly to themselves.

"I – er – Sorry I was in the way," she called after them lamely as the Portrait hole closed, leaving her alone once again. Then, with a barely contained sob of embarrassment, Hermione turned and scurried up to the girls' dormitory as fast as her legs could carry her.

* * *

"Hermione, what's the matter? You look sort of pale." Harry's dark eyebrows were furrowed in concern.

Hermione just shook her head tiredly, the aftereffects of that morning still weighing heavily on her ego.

The three of them sat in the Great Hall, taking turns playing each other at Wizard Chess and eating breakfast. Or, in Hermione's case, nibbling distractedly on a small piece of toast.

"I think you need more sleep," said Ron as he dug a substantial chunk out of the butter bowl with his knife and slapped it on a biscuit.

"Brilliant observation, Ronald," Hermione snapped, opening her copy of _The Daily Prophet _with a noisy flourish. A picture of Cornelius Fudge shaking hands with an extremely large, dark-haired man flashed under a headline that read: MINISTRY MAKES A NEW FREND.

"Who wrote that article?" asked Harry quickly, cutting off Ron, who had just opened his mouth for what Harry was sure would be a very unhelpful remark. "Looks like they need a new editor." Harry pointed at the gross misspelling of the word 'friend.'

Hermione heaved a huge sigh. "No, Harry, it's a pun. Though a very tacky one, so I agree with you that they need a new editor. You see that man in the picture?" She pointed to the massive man shaking the Minister's hand. "His name is Turnus _Frend. S_tupid name, if you ask me. What? Sorry, I know that was rude. But there's something about him that rubs me the wrong way. And would you believe—It says right here, he recently signed on with the Ministry to head up the Department of International Magical Cooperation. _Huge _mistake."

"Why?" asked Harry, who hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about.

"Well, he's... I mean obviously he... Haven't you been reading the news?"

Harry looked slightly affronted. "Of course I read the news! Alright... I've just been sort of scanning the front page for the past month or so. But you know I'm only interested in big stuff anyway."

Hermione rolled her eyes and flattened out the newspaper on the table so that Harry could get a better look. "This _is _big stuff, Harry. Frend joining the Ministry is a very big deal. Especially after the mud-slinging that's been going on between our Ministry and the M.A.R. I suppose a lot of it hasn't been front page news. You just have to read between the lines, and it's not hard to pick most of this up if you pay attention."

Ron, who had previously been pondering over his next move, caught Harry's gaze and rolled his eyes.

Harry smiled knowingly in return and shrugged. "I guess you're right, Hermione," he said, wincing as Ron's queen pounded one of his poor, unsuspecting pawns into dust. "I don't read as thoroughly as you do." Harry then hesitated for a moment, feeling as though he should at least make an attempt to get caught up on current affairs, but not terribly keen on sitting through another all-too-explicit-Hermione-lecture. Finally, throwing caution to the wind, Harry asked tentatively, "What's the M.A.R.?"

"It stands for Magical Administration of Russia," said Ron promptly, finally taking interest in the subject now that he had done significant damage to Harry's line of defense (also perhaps because he was looking to intercept Hermione before she could really get rolling). "And I've heard of that, whathisname, Frend. Dad's with you, Hermione, doesn't like him at all. Then again, Dad also says he's siding with Russia when it comes down to that nasty business with the Giants, so he's a bit partial to—"

Harry looked up from the chessboard, the pawn in his hand momentarily forgotten. "What Giants?"

"I uh... I'm not exactly sure on the _exact _details," said Ron offhandedly. "Dad goes on and on sometimes and I sort of zone out, you know. All I remember is that they found some Giants in Russia and Fudge went mental."

Hermione could no longer contain herself. "You see, Harry," she began enthusiastically, "it all started with this undiscovered tribe of Giants hiding out in the western mountain ranges of Russia—"

"Oh yeah! That's right," interrupted Ron.

Hermione ignored him. "They had been hiding there for hundreds of years apparently – of course, _they _claim that they were simply living there, not hiding at all – but who can really know? Anyway, some researchers from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures stumbled on them about four months ago while following some leads on a new species of Chimera. And they – the researchers, I mean – must not have made many friends on their trip, because they reported back to Fudge that the people of western Russia had known all along about the Giants and were helping to keep their existence a secret—"

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I'll bet Fudge wasn't pleased about that."

"Not particularly," Hermione replied.

"I'm telling you, he went mad," interjected Ron again. "I didn't see Dad for a week, he was at the office so often."

"What did he do?" asked Harry.

Ron opened his mouth to reply, but Hermione jumped in. "An awful lot of whining and complaining. Every quote the Daily Prophet has printed about him since July has been some sort of insult over the 'blatant deceitfulness' of the M.A.R."

"Didn't he also—" Ron started to say.

Hermione cut him off once again. "Then, of course, Fudge called an International Magical Cooperation council meeting near the end of summer. Fudge finally approached Oleg – the Russian representative and figurehead for the M.A.R. – and accused him of conspiring with the Giants. Obviously Oleg took extreme offense at that. He flatly denied everything and then started off on the Minister, accusing him of sending the Ministry in to spy on Russia's administration."

Harry whistled, paying absolutely no attention to his hand as he haphazardly placed his only remaining rook directly in the path of Ron's bishop, which, with a small encouragement from Ron, proceeded to dismember the rook with a particularly violent swing.

Hermione nodded. "Exactly. And so that's when the big debate started. Or at least I _assume _it was a big debate, because all of this information is suspiciously hard to find in the papers. A few interviews here and there, and I had to ask around a bit to get the full story. Anyway, Oleg refused to cooperate, saying that none of this was even Fudge's business to begin with, while Fudge claimed that he had every right to interfere because of some clause called... called... Well I can't remember exactly, it was rather long..." Hermione started flicking through the paper looking for quotes, but gave up a few moments later. "Whatever the clause was, Oleg didn't seem to believe it was very legitimate because he wouldn't budge, and neither would Fudge. So the two administrations have simply been in a deadlock for these past few months."

Harry opened his mouth, and was cut short as Ron proudly exclaimed, "Checkmate."

Startled, Harry looked over at Ron. "Right, good game," he replied with a dismissive wave.

Ron looked mildly affronted, but Harry did not seem to notice.

"So how does this Turny fellow fit into all of this?" Harry grabbed the paper from Hermione and flipped it to the front page again. "And how come he's headline news all of a sudden?"

"That's Turn_us_," Hermione corrected patiently. "And how he fits into all of this is actually rather tricky. You see, after all that horrible nonsense that went back and forth between our administration and theirs, obviously tensions were running high. Then, about two weeks ago, Oleg turned up dead."

Harry's eyes widened.

"At first the papers just had a little note in the back, saying he had fallen and hit his head on the bathroom sink, and wasn't it an unfortunate accident, blah, blah. But that didn't seem to satisfy a lot of people in the M.A.R. They all started to get really suspicious, saying that somehow Fudge was directly responsible for Oleg's death. At least, I think that's what they were saying. I had to read a German newspaper to get this part, and I don't think my translation was very good."

"Wow," Harry breathed. "Why haven't we talked about this before? I know I should read the paper more often, but honestly, you'd think you could have mentioned it."

"I don't know," Hermione replied evasively. "I suppose it never came up. It didn't have anything to do with…You-Know-Who, so… Anyway, we're talking about it now."

Harry gave her a look. "Fine. So what happened after that?"

"Right. A few weeks after Oleg died, this Frend fellow shows up out of nowhere and takes over his position. Couldn't tell you if he was voted in or not, I'm not quite sure how they do things over there. Either way, Frend somehow came to power and surprised everyone by instantly setting out to resolve the whole dispute with Fudge. He gave our Ministry full permission to poke around the mountains all we wanted, and Fudge, along with all the other representatives, elected him Chairman of the Foreign Affairs committee in return. That's what made headlines today. It sounds flashy and all that, but I don't think we've managed to mend any ties between us and the M.A.R. Personally, I think they got the short end of the stick – publicly accused and investigated and all that, and I'm sure they feel the same way. But sometimes I guess there are just no other options when it comes to a man like Fudge.

"Oh, I despise that man!" she hissed angrily. "Here he is causing trouble with one of our very few allies, and right when we really need them the most! He _still _won't admit to Vo-Vol… You-Know-Who's return! He is so foul! All the evidence he needs is sitting right there in front of him and he just _refuses_ to – Oops, sorry, Ron…"

Hermione had gesticulated a bit too energetically and accidentally knocked a goblet of pumpkin juice directly into Ron's lap, who then leapt out of his chair with a yelp.

Harry, his head buzzing with Hermione's lengthy exposition, turned back to studying the picture on the front page of _The Daily Prophet_.

Turnus Frend was at least two feet taller than Fudge, with broad shoulders and charcoal hair that was parted right down the middle in an immaculate and disturbingly neat sort of way. He had a jutting, sturdy jaw, and two of the most piercing blue eyes Harry had ever seen, ones that glinted menacingly from beneath a very prominent brow. And although Frend and Fudge appeared to be shaking hands jovially, Harry had the feeling that neither of them liked each other very much at all.

"It's fine, Hermione, I've got it – I've got it!" Ron's face was scarlet as he batted Hermione's wand away; she was making a very valiant, yet admittedly awkward attempt at drying his pants for him.

Sparing a quick glance and amused snort at their expense, Harry then began to flick through the rest of _The Daily Prophet_, wondering what other snippets of news he had missed lately.

"There's really nothing else of interest in there, Harry," Hermione said finally as she sat back in her chair, shaking her head at a very flustered and red-faced Ron, who had clearly not enjoyed the sensation of having Hermione's wand pointed at his privates.

A group of girls at the Ravenclaw table had obviously witnessed the whole scene because they were giggling madly and looking pointedly at Ron.

Ron immediately made himself very busy putting away the chess set.

Harry flipped another page, utterly engrossed in his reading. "Well this is… This is kind of funny actually. Have either of you seen this story about a… Lentlowe. Charlie Lentlowe?"

Ron outright laughed. "Is that the bloke from Denmark who smuggled love potion in the water pipes? Dean was telling me about it this morning. Brilliant."

Hermione made a small noise of disgust. "It was _not _brilliant," she quipped. "Rather stupid and immature, to be honest. If you keep reading, you'll see the article explains how the waterline he contaminated only reached about fifty people or so, all Muggles, and, according to the leading experts, the potion was not even well-made to begin with. Hardly affected most people and only acted like a common aphrodisiac to the rest. Honestly, it's ridiculous what some people consider news these days."

"I still think it's brilliant," Ron said as he put away the last chess piece and stored the set in his bag. "Just imagine watching those poor idiots wander the city, all flushed and goofy, coming-on to anything that moves."

"Oh yes, I wonder what that's like," Hermione said sarcastically, staring pointedly at him.

Harry started to laugh, but quickly suppressed it.

"Come on, Hermione," Ron pressed, "what if someone did that at Hogwarts? Don't tell me you wouldn't laugh if we were in Charms and some girl was being all mooney over Professor Flitwick."

Despite herself, Hermione giggled.

"Or how about Malfoy trying to woo McGonagall?" chimed Harry.

Ron roared with laughter.

"Well, all I've got to say," Hermione cut in, once she had finished giggling, "is that neither of you would think it was very funny if _you _were the ones on your knees in front of the whole class, spouting sonnets to Professor Trelawney. Honestly, can you imagine how embarrassing that would be? You'd be laughed into oblivion. It just seems so painful, and unnerving, and degrading, and utterly... utterly..." Suddenly, Hermione slammed her cup down on the table and reached under the bench for her bag.

"Er... Hermione?" Ron stopped laughing as Hermione continued to gather up belongings in a furious rush. "Is something wrong?" he asked tentatively.

"I'm going to the library," she said quickly, slinging her book bag over her shoulder and trotting away.

The boys watched her go with mirrored expressions of confusion.

"I hate it when you do that!" Ron called after her, but she was already out the door.

* * *

Hermione blew through the aisles, snatching down book after book and throwing them all into a steadily growing heap on one of the many large study tables in a back corner of the library.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" Ginny asked as she saw her fellow Gryffindor and approached, gingerly picked up one of the books Hermione had just discarded.

Ginny took one glance at the title and gasped. "_Love potions_?" she asked, her eyebrows raised so high that they were in danger of disappearing into her ginger hair. Then she smiled. "You know, if you really want Ron to like you, you could just try telling him–"

"Don't be ridiculous." Hermione snatched the book out of Ginny's hands. "I like Ron just fine as a friend... And I'm _not _making a love potion. There are simply a few ingredients in there that may help me with a new project I'm working on."

Ginny made an exasperated noise. "A new project? Are you mad? I thought you just started one."

Hermione stopped shuffling through the shelves long enough to give Ginny a sidelong glance and an uncharacteristically mischievous smile. "This is not a project for school," she said slyly.

Ginny's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What do you mean? What was that look for?"

"Oh, nothing." Hermione grabbed another book off the shelf and set it down behind her. "But I promise it'll be fun. Want to help?"

There was a slight pause. "I suppose so," said Ginny warily as she slowly sat in the nearest vacant seat. "What is this new project of yours called?"

"Revenge."

If Ginny had been drinking something at that moment, there was no doubt in her mind that it would have come shooting straight out her nose. "You?" she sputtered. "Revenge? On whom? What for? It's not illegal is it?"

Hermione laughed. "Yes, it is revenge — No, I'm not telling who for — And I'm quite sure it _is _illegal actually... but then again I suppose that's half the fun." Then she turned, grabbed the largest and most intimidating book from her monstrous pile, and sat down to read it. "Of course, if you don't want to help," she hastened to add, "I completely understand. I'm giving you a chance to back out now. I won't hold it against you if you don't want to risk it."

Immediately Ginny's face lit up. "Are you kidding? And give up the chance of seeing _you_ do something illegal? Count me in!"  
**  
**


	5. Great Minds Dream Alike

**Chapter Five**

"Alright, so explain this to me again." Ginny pulled out a chair and sat down next to the now pleasantly simmering cauldron.

They were in the Room of Requirement, which had conveniently turned itself into a slightly warmer, substantially cozier, replica of Snape's private laboratory. Hermione had only seen the lab once, by accident, and had not been able to get it out of her mind since. She had never seen so many interesting things in jars in her life.

Thankfully, the Room of Requirement had left out some of the most rare and gruesome items (i.e. the various decapitated limbs and eyeballs), in favor of displaying the tamer, more frequently useful ingredients.

Hermione stopped stirring and sat down next to Ginny. "OK," she began excitedly, "the first thing I decided was that I didn't want anything powder or water-based, you know, nothing that would have to be swallowed. Too difficult. What I really wanted was something that was a sort of paste or cream that would act by simple contact. That way it would be more subtle, and let's face it, we're dealing with Professor Snape, so we're going to need subtlety wherever we can find it. So that narrowed down my options a bit. I still could have used any number of things I suppose…" Hermione flipped open one of the books in front of her and began leafing through the pages. "But, again, for the sake of being as inconspicuous as possible, I decided to use something I've already begun from the St. Mungo's list."

Hermione finally found the page she wanted and scooted the book towards Ginny, pointing at the description of a generic potion used for healing lacerations. Ginny scanned it, her expression politely curious.

"You see," Hermione continued eagerly, "then I had to go through and figure out which manner of ingredients this potion was compatible with. Even though it's relatively generic, my options weren't as wide as I had hoped. A few pinches of ground oyster shell was the first thing I was able to add, and then a bit of pixie blood—I read somewhere that it's used a lot in energy drinks, and, er, other things... You know, to get the blood going and all that. Then I had to wait for everything to cool, and after that I added a bit of..."

Ginny rolled her eyes as Hermione continued rambling on at a relentless pace, rattling off all the ingredients and why she used them until Ginny was hopelessly confused, awed, and, to be quite honest, slightly annoyed. Finally, she cut Hermione off, desperate to get to the whole point of the matter. "What exactly is this potion going to make Snape do?" she asked bluntly.

Hermione bit back a giggle. "If I've done all of my calculations correctly, it should do a number of things. None of them too serious, though, of course. It's really more of a 'flustersome' potion than anything. He'll be jumpy and sensitive to touch—might get a bit of a temperature—most likely will be turned-on by anything he sees—"

"Ew."

"—and there's even a few elements of Veritaserum," Hermione continued, ignoring Ginny's comment.

"You mean he'll have to tell the truth!" Ginny's eyes suddenly sparkled with mischief. The prospect of asking the oh-so-secretive Professor Snape loads of embarrassing questions was clearly ringing a few bells in Ginny's brain.

Hermione shuffled her papers uncomfortably. "More like _compelled _to tell the truth. The effect will probably not be very strong. As I said, there are only elements of it. Veritaserum is a very long and complicated potion just by itself…"

Ginny seemed a bit put out. "Oh, well, I guess that's something at least." A moment later however, she was smiling again. "How long before it's done? I can't wait to mess with him! This idea was mad, Hermione, completely mad, but I'm so impressed."

Hermione paused for a moment before speaking. The potion itself would take a while to make, at least a couple of weeks, and just now, while in its early stages, and because of the variety of ingredients involved (not to mention the fact that it was an experimental potion, therefore making it very unstable), it would require constant attention. Attention that Hermione did not have the time to give with so much homework on her plate already.

This was the main reason she had asked for Ginny's help.

"It should be done sometime after the holidays," Hermione replied off-handedly. "But I may have a slight... problem. You see, the potion is at a very crucial stage right now. It—it needs to be stirred four times, counter-clockwise, in intervals of ten minutes every three hours, and normally I would take care of it myself, but—"

"But you're busy," Ginny finished for her, smiled, and patted Hermione's shoulder. "Not a problem. If anyone deserves a break it's you. Just tell me how to do this properly. I'll take care of it."

Hermione smiled. "Perfect, Ginny, thanks. I knew you'd be up for it."

Ginny gave a small shrug as Hermione pulled out a quill and a scrap of parchment and began to scribble out a detailed list of instructions.

"Well, when you grow up with brothers like Fred and George, you have to learn to put forth the effort when it comes to really good pranks."

Hermione snorted. "Very true."

"In fact, why don't you let me take over tonight?"

Hermione looked up. "Oh, no, really, Ginny—you don't have to."

Ginny shook her head stubbornly. "I want to," she said. "For no other reason than that those bags under your eyes are starting to frighten the First Years."

Hermione laughed heartily as she finished her last sentence with a flourish and handed the parchment over to Ginny. "Alright then. Don't know how I can argue with that. Thanks. And I hope these instructions aren't too confusing," she added worriedly.

Ginny glanced over them. "Not at all."

The candlelight shone in a brilliant halo around Ginny's red hair and illuminated her straight and dainty teeth as she looked up, flashing Hermione a smile.

For some reason, at that moment, Hermione was struck with a searing stab of jealousy. She suddenly found herself very aware of how beautiful Ginny was. Feminine and graceful, headstrong and stubborn. She even had a good sense of humor.

Hermione, on the other hand, felt very... plain. Intimidating every boy in her path with her sharp wit, wild mane, and obsessive intellectual ambitions. Her hair never glowed in the firelight. Her eyes didn't sparkle with mischief or adventure. And even after Madam Pomfrey had shrunk them in her fourth year, Hermione's teeth were still far from dainty.

This strange feeling passed an instant later, however, and as a wave of tiredness settled down upon her, Hermione returned Ginny's smile. "OK. See you in the morning, I guess," she sighed, as she slowly gathered up her book bag and headed for the door, her body feeling heavy and sluggish. It would be a miracle if she managed to make it to the portrait hole before passing out.

"Pleasant dreams," Ginny replied, stifling a yawn.

Hermione gave her a small wave before closing the door, hoping against hopes that her dreams were indeed pleasant, and that for once, they did not revolve around a certain dark-haired man.

* * *

It was breakfast time in the Great Hall. Hermione absentmindedly hummed Christmas carols under her breath as she diced a piece of melon with her fork.

_I wonder what I should get Professor Snape for Christmas_, she thought lazily, surprised to find herself feeling generous towards him again. She hardly even remembered how she had managed to work herself into such a fury in the first place. _Maybe a new quill, perhaps, or something nice for his desk, or..._ "Hey, watch it!"

Hermione jumped up from the table as a letter-bearing owl crashed into her pumpkin juice and spilled it all over her lap. Ruffling its feathers, the owl simply sat back and blinked innocently at her as she scowled and reached into her bag for her wand.

Only, her wand was not there.

Wondering whether she might have left it somewhere in the library, Hermione gave a nervous whine and emptied the contents of the bag onto the table in a vain attempt to find it.

"Trouble, Granger?" said a deep, drawling, familiar voice.

Hermione whipped around, mortified to be caught by Professor Snape with, of all things, pumpkin juice splattered down her front (not to mention having lost her wand as well). She cringed as she felt the cold, sticky liquid running down her legs, soaking into her socks.

"I believe you might have... misplaced this," Snape growled, making no sign that he noticed the enormous stain down Hermione's front as he held out a wand. Her wand.

_How in the world did he get that? _Hermione wondered as she hesitantly reached out and plucked the wand from his hand. "Um, thank you," she mumbled.

"Thank you, _sir_," he snapped.

"Thank you, _sir_," Hermione ground out, looking down at her sopping wet clothes... to find that her skirt was miraculously dry. Not even a stain. With a start, she looked back up again but was faced with empty air.

Professor Snape was gone.

In fact, the whole Great Hall was empty.

Hermione jumped with surprise as something nibbled on her finger. She turned to see the owl—which now seemed a great deal whiter than it had been before—still sitting on the table and patiently offering its leg with the attached letter.

Curiosity erased every other thought in Hermione's mind as she reached for the envelope. It did not matter that what was happening made no sense. It did not matter that the table in front of her, which had only moments before been groaning under heaping plates of food, was now bare. The only thing that mattered was that she read that letter.

The envelope was blank, giving no hint as to whom it was supposed to be addressed, or even who had addressed it. Without sparing any further thoughts to its origin, Hermione ripped it open, feeling as though, for some reason, this letter was very important—as though she had been waiting for whatever was inside for a very long time.

Hermione fumbled with the string binding for what seemed like ages before she was finally able to unfold the stubborn parchment and read its mysterious contents.

The message contained only one sentence, written in elegant spidery letters that Hermione instantly recognized.

_Granger_, it began simply, and she spared a quick moment of frustration that the man did not even have the courtesy to include a proper address. That feeling instantly dissolved as her eyes traveled down the parchment. An enormous jolt of what felt like lightning leapt through her body as she read the next line:

_Sometimes, I dream of you too_.

Hermione woke with a sharp gasp. Immediately she looked around to find that, once again, she was not in her bed.

Thankfully, it was still dark outside, which meant that most of Hogwarts' students were sure to be fast asleep in their rooms. The fire in the Gryffindor common room had been reduced to glowing coals, and aside from the occasional whine or pop, the air was silent as a tomb. Shakily, Hermione got to her feet and slowly made her way back up the stairs, resolved at once to go to Madam Pomfrey first thing in the morning.

This sleepwalking had to stop.

* * *

Severus's eyes snapped open and he immediately jumped in surprise as he found himself face to face with... his own reflection. A pair of dark, coal-black eyes glinted back at him from the frosty pane of his bedroom window. He stood inches away from the smooth glass, still as a statue, his heart hammering in his chest, his mind racing to figure out what had happened.

The last thing he could remember doing was putting the stopper on a bottle of recently completed Veritaserum and then crawling into bed sometime around four in the morning. He was almost certain that he had fallen straight to sleep... but then, here he was, surely no more than an hour or two later (for it was still very dark outside), out of bed and standing at the window. He looked down to see a handprint on the glass. His handprint he assumed, for his fingertips were still cold. Exactly what his hand had been doing there, however, he was without a clue.

Slowly, Severus turned and scanned the room, every sense straining to pick up something out of the ordinary. The room was dark, quiet, and still as always.

How very peculiar this was, Severus thought, as he shook his head and walked the few steps back to his bed. Had he simply been staring out the window and dozed off? Was it even possible he had fallen asleep standing up? Or perhaps he had been sleepwalking, and maybe the shock of the cold window against his skin had woken him.

This seemed like the most logical explanation, and that made him extremely uneasy. He had never sleepwalked before in his life, so the fact that he was doing it now, seemingly without provocation, did not sit well with him at all. Though, granted, he did not get very far, he could not help thinking that next time (if there was a next time, and for some reason he felt almost sure that there would be), he might end up somewhere he dearly did not want to be. Namely, anywhere outside his private chambers.

As he slid back under the covers and calmed his breathing once again to a slow, even pace, he began to run over the day in his head, searching for something, anything, that could have caused this mysterious behavior.

But everything had been the same. As depressingly dull as it was, Severus had let himself slip into an all-too-comfortable routine. Even his dreams were the same.

He paused on that thought, because now that he thought about it, there had been something odd about his dream that night. It teased him at the back of his mind; he could not quite remember what it was that had been different.

He concentrated.

The dream had started out just like it always did:

Severus sat cross-legged on the black and white tiled floor of the enormous kitchen in Snape Manor. He was ten years old. In the distance he could hear a series of loud thumps and a woman screaming. There was a particularly loud crash, like glass shattering, and then a man's drunk, booming voice.

Severus did not move to investigate this commotion. He was familiar with the sounds, and horrible though they were, he also knew that none of this was real—that it was all a dream. Even so, Severus felt (as he always did) a slight twinge of regret for not immediately leaping to his mother's rescue. He loved his mother, and he hated that she suffered. Though he knew very well that there was nothing he could do, he felt the need to stand in front of her.

It had been the same when his parents were still alive. Always wanting to help, to face down his father, but always lacking the courage to do so.

Years ago, when Severus was still at home and had not yet reached the appropriate age for initiation into the Death Eaters, he had lived forever, it seemed, in perpetual fear. He had learned to hide whenever he saw Mr. Snape with a bottle in his hand, or smelled the firewhisky on his breath. He would run to the kitchen and sit underneath the sink, plugging his ears and trying to block out the sounds.

In the Muggle world, the beating Mrs. Snape received would not have gone unnoticed by the neighbors. However, in the wizarding world, there was no such thing as an incriminating bruise or cigarette burn. A flick of the wand, and everything was back to normal. Even the mental damage could be repaired with the right spells—_obliviate _and all that. But there was still a dull, glazed look in Mrs. Snape's eye that Severus could never quite forget. It was the look of someone who no longer cared, and young though he was, he recognized it, and it terrified him.

One night, the summer before Severus's first year at Hogwarts, Mr. Snape had come home and found Severus bent intently over a large textbook in the living room.

Suddenly, and without any provocation at all, he had snatched the book from his son's hands. As he began to tear out every page one by one, he repeated over and over again, in a slurred raspy voice, that no son of his was going to grow up to be a spineless, pathetic little creature. He was going to be tough, and strong. He was going to bring honor to the name of Snape, he was not going to let others push him around. Then Mr. Snape had shoved a half-empty bottle of liquor into Severus's hand and sat in a chair by the fire to watch him drink it.

Severus did not want to drink his father's liquor. He did not want to drink something that made a person yell and hurt other people. He did not want to drink it, but he did, because he was scared.

His father said that he did not want his son to be spineless, but for his entire life, that is precisely what Severus had been.

His mother had come into the room then. She stopped as she saw the ruined book and the nearly empty bottle in her son's hand. Though she immediately tried to retreat, it was too late. Mr. Snape had already seen her.

"Did you buy him the books?" he had asked, his voice low and dark.

Her back straightened. "Yes."

He backhanded her.

Maybe it had been the whiskey. Maybe it had been because he wanted to show his father that he wasn't spineless. Or maybe he had simply had enough. Whatever it was, on that particular night, as Severus saw his mother crumple to the ground, something had snapped inside him.

"That's enough!" he had shouted at his father, hurling the bottle in his hand into the fire with an explosive shatter and rushing to his mother's side. "I asked her to buy me the books. It was my fault. You shouldn't hit her, you _shouldn't_–"

Severus had fully expected his father's wrath, fully expected him to erupt into a fury and begin pummeling his tiny, ten-year-old body into a bloody pulp. But before Mr. Snape could so much as speak a word, Mrs. Snape had stood, turned to Severus, and promptly slapped him, quite hard, across the face.

"_Don't_ speak to your father that way," she had said, and it broke Severus's heart.

Of course, now that he was a bit older, Severus understood that she had simply been trying to protect him—hitting him hard so that her husband would not hit him harder. At such a young age, however, the only thing he saw was betrayal.

After that night, Severus had never again stood up for his mother, the love he held for her turned slightly sour. From then on, anger and hatred, and a sense of indignant abandonment, always seemed to be simmering in the recesses of his heart, ready at any time to be unleashed by even the slightest offense.

This, perhaps more than anything else, was what had committed him to the path that led to Voldemort's side…

Dream Severus stood from his seat on the floor of the kitchen in Snape manor and began to walk. He was not going anywhere in particular, he simply felt like moving.

The commotion from the dining room increased, but Severus did not pay it any attention. There would be plenty of time later to confront his father. There always was.

As Severus wandered down the hall, he paused when he saw that a light was on in the library.

A light had never been on in the library before.

Wary of this new development, Severus crept towards the open doorway, his tiny feet silent on the hardwood floor. He could hear the steady, dull thud of what sounded like someone stacking a large amount of books. Then there came a rustling of pages and a noticeable plop as whoever it was sat down in one of the huge armchairs.

Severus sucked in his breath with surprise. The person was humming. And it was not just any humming, it was a humming that he recognized (and thoroughly despised).

Without waiting a second longer, Severus rushed into the room—then slid to a stop as his wild fear was confirmed: Hermione Granger had somehow found her way into his dreams.

She sat there in the chair, an open book balanced on her lap as she rubbed vigorously at a small spot on her shirt. It looked as though she were trying to rub away a stain, but there was nothing there. Severus watched her do this mysterious task, feeling as though there were something else about her that was not quite right.

Then he noticed that she seemed sort of blurry around the edges, as though he were looking at her through a telescope that was not quite in focus.

When she continued to rub at the invisible spot on her shirt, Severus hesitantly cleared his throat.

She did not look up.

"Granger?" he said at last, his voice sounding irritatingly small and squeaky.

Still, she did not acknowledge his existence.

Feeling his chest begin to fill with a familiar rage, he took one trembling step forward. "Granger, look at me!" he shouted.

She did not.

"What are you doing here? Why don't you look at me? Granger! Granger—look at me! Hermione Grang–"

Then, quite suddenly, she looked up. Her brown eyes were duller than usual and without their familiar sparkle of youthful energy, but there was no mistaking that they were hers. She slowly opened her mouth. When she spoke, her voice was empty and strange. "Your library is not very extensive," she said.

Severus did not respond. He simply stood in place, gaping foolishly at her.

"Where's your mother?" she asked, still in the same toneless voice.

Severus jumped as there came a particularly loud crash from down the hall and his mother let out a long, shrill wail.

Hermione did not even flinch. "I believe I should have a word with her about properly stocking her bookshelves."

Severus's eyes snapped open.

Surely that's where the dream had ended, he thought, as he lay there in bed. Was that why he had been sleepwalking? Granted, the experience had been very odd... But surely that could not have been the only cause. And if it was, why had he gone to the window, of all places? What had he been doing there? Had he been trying to open it? And what, in Merlin's name, was Hermione Granger doing in his dreams?

It was a very long time until morning.

* * *

A/N: On a random side note, I am not aware of the books ever stipulating where Snape's chambers are actually located. Usually we assume that they are underground somewhere, but I guess I just felt like giving him a little change of scenery? Maybe I'm just rebellious? Who knows.


	6. That Game Called Revenge

**Chapter Six**

The Fat Lady yawned hugely as she swung open.

"Sorry to wake you," Hermione said quietly as she passed.

The Fat Lady simply rolled her eyes. "Sakes alive, you might as well," she grumbled. "Hardly a wink of sleep, with that red-haired hooligan popping in and out all night."

"Really sorry," Hermione whispered again as she walked away, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

"I thought people were supposed to sleep in on the Holidays," The Fat Lady called after her, but Hermione merely shrugged and kept walking.

She was almost halfway to the Hospital Wing when it occurred to her that perhaps Madam Pomfrey was not up and about at six-thirty in the morning. Surely even _she _slept in on the Holidays. With that in mind, Hermione made an immediate change of direction and instead headed for the library, knowing that Madam Pince was always an early riser.

Sure enough, when Hermione arrived at the big wooden doors and crept inside, a pair of beady eyes followed her from behind an enormous tower of books. Hermione smiled and waved at her, but Madam Pince merely gave a pert nod and then disappeared again behind her wall of literature.

Hermione had fully intended to study, or at least be productive in some capacity. Yet, a mere half-hour later found her staring distractedly out the window, with a copy of _You and Your Cauldron: A detailed look into Advanced Potions-Making _sitting open but unread on the table in front of her. Not for the first time in the past few months, Hermione was unable to concentrate. She kept running over her dreams in her head, trying, as she always did, to make sense of things.

She did not get very far.

Love, or the possibility of love, or maybe not even the possibility—for Heaven's sake, wasn't this supposed to be a passing infatuation?—was all unfamiliar territory for Hermione. For once in her life, the library was not opening its arms to help her.

The castle was just beginning to stir when Hermione finally set out for the Hospital Wing an hour later. She passed by a few Prefects in the halls. Instead of nodding a cheery hello as she normally did, she simply kept her head down and tried her best to be as inconspicuous as possible. (After all, she would need the practice).

"Good morning, dear, what is it that you need?" Madam Pomfrey smiled happily from behind her desk and beckoned Hermione in with a wave of her hand. An enormous pile of bandages were rolling themselves up in a basket at her feet.

Hermione smiled back and approached, feeling a new spark of confidence after receiving such a cheerful greeting. "I've been having some trouble with sleepwalking," she began assertively, "and I think it has something to do with—well, probably a whole number of things—but, I think, in particular, the, er, dreams I've been having, are... Could I perhaps have a draft of Dreamless Sleep? Not much. Just enough for a few days or so. I think. Would be helpful."

Madam Pomfrey gave Hermione a shrewd look. "If you were any other student, Miss Granger, I would probably say no," she replied rather sternly, getting up from her seat and walking over to a large oak cabinet which stood open and loaded with various assortments of glass containers and medicinal concoctions. "It's valuable. I hate to just _give_ it out... Though Merlin knows I've seen you. Running yourself to exhaustion over school work. It's a wonder you've made it this far into the semester without some sort of epileptic fit, so I'm glad you came to see me, really. It isn't healthy, to keep on like that, you know. I've told Minerva I don't know _how _many times that you students need to—" Madam Pomfrey paused. "That's odd. I seem to be out."

"Out?" Hermione gulped.

Madam Pomfrey frowned as she moved a few bottles around in a last, vain attempt. "He must have taken the last of it," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry, dear, you'll have to wait before I can send out for more."

Hermione, in that moment, felt very, very tired—more tired than she could ever remember feeling. All she wanted was to sleep, deeply and without interruption. "Who did you say took it?" she asked, squinting her eyes against a sudden headache. Maybe she could bargain whoever it was for what was left of the draft. Right now, she would do just about anything for a good rest.

"Why, Professor Snape did, just this morning."

Or maybe not.

"In fact, I believe he took a full bottle, the glutton. Oh! But you didn't hear that from me." Madam Pomfrey blushed a little in embarrassment. "In any case, if you are truly in need—and I do believe that you are—I imagine he might lend you a bit if you ask nicely."

On second thought, perhaps the sleepwalking wasn't so bad. "N-no, that's alright," Hermione said wearily, thinking that Professor Snape was more likely to sprout wings and fly around the room singing Weasley Is Our King than freely lend her anything—especially after the way she had behaved at their last lesson. Hermione started towards the door. "I'll just... wait until you get some more."

Madam Pomfrey's eyebrows furrowed, but if she was at all concerned or curious about Hermione's unnaturally flushed face, she made no comment. "Alright, dear. I'll let you know when they've arrived. Take care of yourself."

Hermione nodded a goodbye, shut the door, then turned tail and retreated as fast as she could to the nearest bathroom. She needed a quiet place to gather herself. Already she could feel tears of frustration pricking her eyes. The stupid sort of tears that didn't mean anything but couldn't be helped - as though her body were forcing some sort of cathartic release.

Of all people to have taken it! The one person in the world who was least likely to give her anything beyond unwarranted detentions and vicious insults.

Hermione closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, holding her aching head in her hands and taking a deep breath.

What was she going to do? She wanted sleep, needed it quite frankly (especially if she didn't want to blow up her most recent project). _I wonder how Ginny did last night_, she thought belatedly, feeling a pang of guilt that she hadn't checked in on her yet. _Oh well, surely if something went wrong she would have told me by now._

Hermione walked over to the sink and splashed some water on her face, soothed by the crisp, cool feeling against her warm cheeks. That at least seemed to revive her a bit, and the pain in her head receded slightly.

Now, what to do about those dreams?

Hermione stared through her reflection in the mirror, her eyes wide and unfocused as she tried to puzzle out a solution. Could she brew a draft of Dreamless Sleep herself? She had never read up on it and imagined it would be rather difficult, even with all the books and ingredients at her disposal. Besides, she was probably just as likely to lose more sleep over preparing the potion than she would gain when she actually got to use it. Then again, she had no idea how long it would take for the Hospital Wing to order a new shipment. It had to be at least a week, and a week of sleepwalking did not sound very manageable to her at all. Wasn't there another way? Well, there was always Madam Pomfrey's suggestion…

But Hermione was pretty sure she would rather die. So, where did that leave her? Right back where she started.

_This is shaping up to be a terrific bloody holiday_, she thought bitterly as she dried her face on a towel, smoothed her skirt, and then exited the bathroom.

Hermione was just reaching the bottom of the stairs on her way to breakfast when she suddenly found herself assaulted on both sides by two extremely large and exuberant hugs.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you–"

"You're so wonderful and brilliant and amazing and–"

"How did you ever get so bloody _cool_–"

"Fred and George would be so proud–"

Hermione laughed as she shoved her way out of Harry and Ron's arms. "I suppose Ginny told you about the you-know-what then?"

Both boys nodded, looking nearly incapacitated with glee.

"When's it going to be ready?" Ron asked excitedly.

"Can we help?" Harry said, grinning like an idiot.

Hermione beamed back. This was exactly what she needed—to be immersed in the company of her two dearest friends. "Actually, Harry, I was going to ask you if I could borrow your dad's cloak."

He looked slightly bewildered, though the broad smile on his face remained unchecked. "Uh, sure," he replied without question. "You know I'm always willing to contribute to a worthy cause." He put an arm around her shoulders. "And giving Snape a bit of what's coming to him is certainly a worthy cause."

"Yes, well, it is about time, isn't it?" she replied.

"I'll say," Ron piped in.

As the three of them commenced their walk towards the Great Hall, Hermione did her best to shush them, terrified that someone might overhear. Because if anyone else found out about this, the news was sure to get back to Snape. Probably before the day was even out. After all, gossip traveled fast at Hogwarts.

"Can we come with you?" Ron whispered across the table as they sat down to eat.

Hermione cleared her throat uncomfortably. "Uh... well... actually, no. I don't think that would be a very good idea."

Ron looked extremely put-out. "What? Why not?"

She shrugged as she began to butter a slice of toast. "I just think it's going to be hard enough sneaking around Professor Snape's private lab without the both of you tagging along, giggling and making obnoxious jokes. Besides, as much as you two have grown over the summer, I hardly think we would all fit under the cloak anymore. No, I really think it's best I go on my own."

Ron did not seem convinced, his smile fading. But, for once in his life, he let the subject drop and instead sulked behind an enormous mountain of blueberry pancakes.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Hermione slept when she could and made sure to get to bed early every night so that in case she sleepwalked, she had a better chance of waking before everyone else in the castle—therefore allowing her the time to rescue herself from embarrassment.

An alarming amount of people had found out about her 'Ode to Revenge' potion, and though she had expected this, her nerves were certainly jangled. She was barraged with congratulatory handshakes left and right, and even received an enormous package of complimentary Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes from Fred and George.

The note attached said:

_Dear Hermione, Glorious Most Magnanimous Queen of the Library,_

_So proud to know we've rubbed off on you._

_P.S. Will obviously be expecting a full report. Come visit anytime._

Thankfully, that seemed to be the extent of who knew. Because, as far as she could tell, the secret had remained within their tight circle of Gryffindor friends. Of course, there was still plenty of time for the plan to be leaked, and she wasn't going to take any chances. She avoided Snape like the plague, terrified that if she saw him again he would take one look at her face and immediately know the entire thing.

Finally, on the last day of Winter Break, the potion was ready. (Sooner than she had expected, but who was she to complain?). Hermione had also managed, at last, to get hold of a draft of Dreamless Sleep the night before, and so was fresh and rested early that morning when she entered the Room of Requirement, ready to add the final touches to the potion.

"Red?" she breathed in horror as she approached the cauldron and gazed into its brightly glowing contents. That was just about the furthest thing from inconspicuous...

Frantically, Hermione searched the shelves, looking for something, anything, that might help change the color, or at least dim the glowing. How could she have overlooked this? She had spent so much time getting the potion to be the perfect texture that she completely forgot about color. He would see even one drop of that from a mile away.

Suddenly, Hermione turned around to find a small glass container sitting innocently on the table, where before there had only been empty space.

_Where did that come from_? she thought warily, examining it carefully before picking it up and gingerly unscrewing the top.

She wafted the fumes delicately. It smelled like powdered chalk. She dipped a finger into it and then rubbed it against her thumb. It _was _powdered chalk. Was the Room trying to tell her something? Is this what she needed? She remembered reading something about powdered chalk and its malleable properties. Did that extend to pigment as well?

Hermione shrugged. There was only one way to find out…

Muttering a quick prayer, Hermione delicately sprinkled the white powder into her cauldron. She held her breath... and then let it back out an instant later as the potion dulled, the bright red slowly transforming to a light, smoky gray.

Hermione smiled. Assuming that the chalk had not affected the potency, that was exactly what the potion had needed.

So, feeling pleased with herself, and sending out a silent thank you to her mysterious provider, Hermione bottled her concoction, gathered her books, and then went on to breakfast.

* * *

Hermione felt a very strong sense of déjà vu later that morning as a brilliant white owl swooped down on the table in the Great Hall and nearly upset her pumpkin juice. Thankfully, she rescued it in time and even spared a quick moment to offer the owl a piece of bacon before shooing it on its way.

She had been expecting a letter from her parents (they had only recently learned how to send mail by owl) so Hermione was shocked when she opened the small scrap of parchment and found herself staring at a now very familiar spidery writing.

_Granger,_

_Your ingredients have arrived._

_If you still harbor the desire to continue your project, you may arrive at the laboratory tonight at 9 o'clock._

_Do not be late._

Hermione groaned.

* * *

The gloomy dungeon was darker than usual when Hermione entered (once again checking her watch to make sure that she was arriving _precisely _on time). There were only a few candles lit and the air was unusually quiet; no sound of a pleasantly simmering cauldron, or the crackle of flames, or the rhythmic chopping of ingredients.

Professor Snape was not there.

Instantly skeptical, Hermione left the door ajar as she explored the room, looking for any sign of her professor. Surely he would not make such a pointed remark about her arriving on time and then have the audacity to be late himself? And wouldn't he want to be there, just in case the opportunity arose to give her a lecture about promptness, or to take off points?

After a thorough search, Hermione at last came to the conclusion that Snape was indeed nowhere to be found. So, she shrugged and went to sit down at her usual desk... only to find a most astonishing surprise:

There sat all of her research. All those rolls and rolls of parchments that she specifically remembered dashing at Professor Snape's feet were now sitting in a neat, orderly pile next to her cauldron, every paper clean of spilled ink.

Hermione looked around again, convinced that this was some sort of trick. The room was still empty, and the only thing she could hear was her own now slightly erratic breathing.

Had he really done what she thought he had done?

Was this some manner of peace offering from him?

Suddenly, Hermione felt all of her anger wash away. What a nice thing to do—even after she had yelled and thrown a bottle of ink at him! _I really shouldn't go through with that horrible trick now,_ she thought miserably. _Maybe he just can't help being such a... hang on, what's this?_

Hermione reached over and slipped a piece of parchment out from beneath the leg of her cauldron. Once again, the gracefully slanted letters were quite familiar (as was the prickly and condescending tone):

_No doubt it will devastate you to learn that I am unable to attend our session today. Predictably, I have legitimate business that is far worthier of my immediate attention._

_In any case, try not to blow yourself up. And don't, even for a moment, consider using any ingredients but your own. I do not appreciate people nicking from my stores whenever they please._

Hermione scowled. What was that supposed to mean? She had never stolen anything from him (well, except for that one time in her second year…)

_And the next time you decide to throw such an infantile tantrum, under no circumstances will you be allowed to return. Your behavior was foolish, brazen, and embarrassing - entirely unacceptable for a First Yea__r let alone Seventh._

_Finally, I thought it appropriate to inform you that your detention has been scheduled for Friday. Be in my office at 10 p.m., not a minute before, not a moment after. Once your two hours are completed, I will then inform you when and where your next five detentions are to be fulfilled._

"Five!"

_I should not have to remind you to clean up after yourself when you have finished. Last time you failed to grasp even the basic concepts of acceptable sanitation._

The note ended there.

"Oooh, that does it!" Hermione growled through clenched teeth, wadding up the piece of parchment and resisting the urge to set fire to it with her wand. _Five _detentions? Clean notes be dammed, that wretched man was going to get what was coming to him!

* * *

"Oh, come on, Harry, I'm not going to damage it or anything. And Ron, stop giving me that look - I told you we aren't all going to fit and there's nothing I can do about it, so quit sulking. You look like Crookshanks after a bath."

Ron simply glowered as Harry grudgingly handed over the invisibility cloak, the expression on his face clearly saying that he wished he could accompany it.

"Honestly," Hermione grumbled as she pulled it over her shoulders and disappeared beneath it. "Boys."

The Fat Lady said nothing as Hermione stole past her, quiet as a ghost (and substantially less visible than one). She quickly made her way through the castle, thankfully managing to avoid any major mishap—except for a rather close call with a suit of armor on the third floor. It had apparently been recently bewitched, because the instant Hermione walked by, it leapt off its stand and proceeded to sweep her into a rather loud and enthusiastic waltz. Within a few minutes, she had managed to disentangle herself, successfully dismember the noisy thing, and then she was instantly on her way again.

Shockingly enough, everything that night went according to plan. She snuck into Snape's lab, found the glass of Armadillo Bile (which she knew he would be using very soon in his current project), and she carefully coated it in her now entirely translucent and inconspicuous potion.

She just hoped that it was enough to affect him. According to her calculations, even one finger on the face of the bottle would be enough. She had tested it earlier that night with merely a pinpoint-sized drop on the palm of her hand, and even now, hours later, she was still feeling a bit flushed and bothered.

In any case, all went well, and she even made it back to Gryffindor Tower in just a little over an hour.

Despite the fact that the boys had been rather grumpy when she left, the moment Hermione entered through the portrait hole, there they were, sitting by the fire with two enormous, mischievous grins plastered across their faces.

"How did it go?" they asked eagerly.

"Perfect," she replied.

* * *

There was an almost tangible feeling of anticipation in the dungeon classroom the next afternoon as the Gryffindors and Slytherins all gathered for Potions. The Slytherins, of course, had no idea (at least she hoped they didn't). Seamus had been giving her winks and thumbs-up all morning.

The door opened, everyone turned, and in stepped Professor McGonagall.

They all looked at each other.

"Excuse me," drawled Draco Malfoy. "_You're _substituting for Professor Snape?"

McGonagall's mouth thinned. "Yes, Mr. Malfoy. I am. And if you ever take that tone with me again, you will be polishing banisters until March, is that understood?"

Malfoy sneered.

"Yes," McGonagall continued sharply, striding up the board and waving her wand to produce a full three pages of notes. "Professor Snape will be out for a few days, and I—" she sent another withering look in Malfoy's direction "—will be filling in for him. He has left me a very thorough set of instructions, however, so I suggest we all get to work immediately."

In the space of a moment, every Gryffindor in the room seemed to turn as one and stare pointedly at Hermione, the disappointment very apparent on their faces.

Hermione blushed hotly. How did Snape do it? The joke was on him, and _still _she was the one who ended up in knots of embarrassment.

Ron leaned over to whisper in her ear. "I guess he turned coward and hid in his room."

"Oh well," whispered Harry in her other ear. "At least you got rid of him for a little while."

Hermione knew they had only been trying to make her feel better, but the fact that she had gone to all that trouble and now there wasn't even any proof, only made her feel worse.

Yet... the more she thought about it, Professor Snape was hardly the sort of person to hide from anything.

Something about this did not sit right with her.

"Excuse me, Professor," Hermione said timidly as she approached McGonagall once the bell had rung. All of the other students, apart from Harry and Ron, were heading on to lunch.

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

Hermione fidgeted. "Have you seen Professor Snape? I mean, do you know where he is?"

Professor McGonagall gave all three of them a good, long stare. "He's out," she said finally.

"Out where?" asked Ron.

"That's none of your business, Mr. Weasley."

"What? Why not?"

McGonagall made an exaggerated motion of rolling her eyes. "It's something to do with the Order," she finally hissed quietly. "He left yesterday afternoon and will not be back for a few days. Now, if you three will please stop badgering me with questions and run on to lunch. I have entirely too many things to do and another class to teach."

Harry, Hermione and Ron looked at each other. Clearly, they were all thinking the same thing: Professor Snape had not touched the potion. They still had a chance.

"I'm famished," said Ron with a smile.

"Me too," said Harry.

"Goodbye, Professor McGonagall," said Hermione. "And thank you."

_We still have a chance! _Hermione thought gleefully as she felt a renewed burst of energy. She resisted the urge to squeal with triumph. After all, it was still only a chance.

* * *

It was a whole three days before Hermione saw Snape again. He came striding into the Great Hall and sat down at the staff table just as she was finishing her dinner.

Ron gave her an unnecessary prod in the side. "We have double Potions tomorrow," he said suggestively, raising his eyebrows and making her laugh.

"You think the... whatever, the Armadillo Bile, needs another coat?" Harry asked as they climbed the stairs to Gryffindor Tower.

Hermione shook her head. "No. I applied plenty the first time. It should keep for a while."

At least she hoped it would...

* * *

Everyone jumped as Professor Snape stormed through the door and then slammed it loudly behind him. His face was unnaturally flushed. His stride was halting, jerky—as though he could barely restrain his body from shaking all over. Hermione thought he looked faintly reminiscent of the little plastic animal toys she used to play with as a child. The ones that, when wound, would waddle funnily across flat surfaces.

Snape's jumpiness was so acute, in fact, that as he passed between the desks, his toe caught the edge of his robe and he stumbled violently. In the resulting flail of limbs and thinly muted curses, Snape reached out and grabbed onto the nearest surface he could find in order to avoid what surely would have been a spectacular face-plant. Unfortunately, that surface turned out to be the back of Pansy Parkinson's neck.

"Oooow!" Pansy squealed, trying to wriggle out of Snape's tight hold as he was momentarily forced into a renewed struggle for balance, his dark robes all a tangle.

Once he steadied himself and somewhat re-ordered his attire, Snape's face immediately turned a very unflattering shade of puce. His chest puffed in and out with unusually quick breaths and he quickly snatched back his hand the moment he looked down and realized whom he had grabbed. "S-sorry," he stammered. Then he looked erratically around for someone to blame. "KEEP YOUR BLOODY BOOKS ON YOUR DESK, THOMAS!" he roared, waving his wand and sending a book that had been sitting nowhere near his feet soaring into the back of Dean's shoulder.

Snape waved his wand again and the blackboard at the front of the class became nearly solid white with notes. "Begin!" he barked and went to sit at his desk.

Hermione felt half a room-full of eyes turn on her.

Dean was rubbing his shoulder but flashed her a quick thumbs-up. Seamus turned around in his seat to give her a full-on salute, and next to her, Harry's face was nearly purple from the effort of trying to contain his laughter. Ron had wisely hidden his head behind an open textbook, though she could see his shoulders clearly shaking, and he eventually dissolved into a series of very suspicious sounding coughs.

Hermione smiled. This was going to be fun.

Over the course of the next hour, Hermione, Harry, Ron, and the rest of their fellow Gryffindors, spent very little time on their projects and quite a lot of time playing tricks on Snape (then laughing themselves silly under their desks).

Seamus made it his particular job to wave his wand every five minutes or so and send diced pieces of frog liver splattering onto the back of Snape's chair when he wasn't looking. Every time Snape jumped, or whipped his head around, looking furiously for the source of these mysterious assaults, Dean would reward Seamus with a discreet high-five under the table.

Harry, who was feeling especially bold, played a very dangerous game of move-the-ink-pot. Using the subtlest of movements and only during the loudest of moments (usually when Neville managed to make his potion emit strange sounds of puffs of questionable smoke), Harry would magically nudge Snape's inkpot so that he missed it with his quill when he went to dip it. Hermione rather thought this was Harry taking his life in his own hands, and was fully prepared to make a dash for the exit the moment Snape cottoned on. But after Snape's fifth failed attempt to properly wet his quill, he made a strangled sort of growl and with a sharp thunk, threw down his hand and buried the quill's tip halfway into the desktop.

At Harry's sudden expression of shock and the hurried way in which he immediately bent over his cauldron with an air of overdramatic concentration, Hermione had to pinch herself to keep from laughing aloud.

After a while, Snape took to lecturing instead of note-taking, and asked the class (mostly rhetorical) questions. When Hermione answered one (correctly as always), instead of sneering with a "know-it-all" insult, Snape had nodded and blurted, "Excellent, Miss Granger," before he could stop himself. Then, he shook his head, frowning with confusion. "That is, I mean to say, it is... adequate, I suppose," he amended.

"I guess that means the Veritaserum part is working!" Hermione whispered excitedly to Harry, who gave her an alarmingly mischievous smile in return.

Lavender and Parvati spent most of the period whispering behind their cauldron and giggling quietly to themselves. Apparently they had been devising a plan, for when the class walked up to turn in their bottled potions mid-way through the lesson, Lavender "accidentally" tripped and fell flat across Professor Snape's shoulders, purposefully ending up in a very provocative position.

With Lavender's breasts mere inches from his face, and amid barely muffled peals of laughter from the students, Professor Snape rocketed out of his chair, consequently causing Lavender to tumble rather ungracefully to the floor. He made no move to help her up. "Watch where you're going, Brown," he hissed, straightening his waistcoat indignantly. His face was noticeably more flushed and even his voice was starting to sound suspiciously high-strung and wobbly.

"Oh, Professor?" said Parvati in a voice that Hermione had only heard her use when she was trying to get Harry's attention. "Oh, Professor Snape?"

Snape's head snapped in her direction, his eyes blazing. "What _is _it, Miss Patil?"

Parvati seemed to lose her nerve once directly under his furious gaze, and she paused. "Um, nothing," she said quietly.

Lavender, who had just regained her feet with the all-too-enthusiastic help of Ron, rolled her eyes. Clearly, she did not appreciate being the only one to take the dive (literally).

After a quick inventory of all the faces currently staring at him, which were various shades of purple from the mighty struggle of containing their laughter, Snape closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Leave your projects on my desk, I have something to take care of and I will not be back before the bell rings," he said, very quickly, as though he were afraid that his voice might crack before he could get it all out.

"What's the matter with you, Professor?" said Pansy sharply behind him, making him jump nearly a foot in the air and fling out his arm. This action then caused the bright orange contents of Neville's beaker to splatter directly into Blaise Zabini's face. His nose almost immediately began to sprout a frighteningly large and hairy purple wart.

"I AM PERFECTLY FINE!" Snape roared. "ZABINI—HOSPITAL WING! CLASS DISSMISSED!" He paused only a split-second to snatch a container of something off his desk (that, belatedly, Hermione thought looked very much like a vial of Dreamless Sleep), before retreating out the door faster than Hermione had ever seen him walk in his life. A cursing Zabini, supported by a rather plump Slytherin girl, followed immediately in his wake.

The class waited a few seconds, just to make sure Snape was truly gone, and then they exploded with laughter. The Gryffindors did, at least. The Slytherins looked sufficiently confused and not at all happy that they seemed to be out of a joke.

"What did you do?" sneered Malfoy. "Slip something into his pumpkin juice?"

They all took one more look at Hermione and then burst into renewed peals of laughter.

* * *

Hermione saw Snape again only briefly during dinner. Brief because the instant he sat down at the staff table, he seemed to notice the embarrassing number of stares directed his way and immediately excused himself.

"Brilliant, Hermione—absolutely brilliant!" crowed Seamus, clapping her on the shoulder.

"I'll say," agreed Dean with a chuckle. "That wasn't even my book Snape chucked at me." He held up a large textbook with GOYLE written in huge, untidy letters on the side. Dean smiled. "I think I might have found an early Deathday present for Moaning Myrtle."

"And did you see what Neville's potion did to that prat, Zabini?" Ron said, laughing and giving a blushing Neville a friendly shove. "I heard Madam Pomfrey told him his nose wouldn't be back to normal for weeks!"

No table in the Great Hall that night was half as loud as the Gryffindors', and it wasn't until dinner was almost over that Hermione realized she had a detention scheduled for the evening.

Hermione glanced at her watch and let out a shriek. She was already two minutes late! Snape was going to _murder _her. Hermione swept anything she thought was hers off the table into her book bag, and then took off at top speed for the dungeons.

She arrived, panting, no more than a minute later, and Snape snapped at her before she could even reached for the doorknob.

"You're late, Granger! I—I just tacked on an extra t-twenty minutes."

Despite the fact that Snape had just stammered, Hermione still needed to take a calming breath before entering. _It was worth it_, she thought determinedly. _A few detentions is not the end of the world. It was all worth it. _Then she opened the door and walked inside.

Hermione could barely restrain a smile as she approached Professor Snape's desk. He was sitting bolt upright in his chair, his hands blatantly shaking and his face flushed a deep, rosy pink.

"Not t-too close, Granger," he said, waving her off as she neared him. His nose was twitching nervously and he seemed infuriated by his undermining stutter.

"What would you like me to do... Professor?" Hermione replied, dropping the last word a few octaves and delighting in how it seemed to make him squirm.

Snape wiped a hand across his forehead, beads of sweat now gathering at his temples. "I—Do what? Oh, yes, your detention." He dabbed his face again with the back of his sleeve as he looked around, seemingly unable to remember what it was he had intended to have her do. Finally he ground out, "I don't care, Granger. Come up with s-some—something—productive yourself. I've g-got to check on something in the back."

Hermione giggled quietly as Snape left, and gave herself a mental pat on the back. Even though the results of the day had not been so dramatic as she had hoped, watching Snape disappear into the back room, the words "mischief managed" came unbidden to her mind and she couldn't help feeling that she would have made Fred and George very proud.

Cleaning shelves, Hermione immediately decided, would be the best option for her detention. It was time consuming, boring, but also "productive." And she wouldn't have to pickle anything. (_Urgh!_)

Carefully, she began to remove contents from the shelves one by one, taking the time to place each of them in order on the table so she wouldn't mix anything up.

Then an idea struck her, and, with a sly smirk, she tore off a few of the labels on the bottles (first making sure that they weren't anything of great importance).

"Professor Snape?" Hermione called sweetly once she had finished.

"What?" came the disembodied snarl from the other room.

Hermione held back a snicker. "Some of your ingredients seem to be missing their labels and I can't identify one of them. Could you take a look, please?"

_Maybe now I can really test out that Veritaserum, _she thought gleefully.

After a long pause, Snape came stumbling out, his hands clenched in tight fists by his sides, his face twisted into a look of intense discomfort and barely suppressed embarrassment. He had discarded his outer robes and his vest was unbuttoned, making him look surprisingly disheveled. Hermione had never known him to be so untidy.

"Pathetic," Snape growled, glaring at her as he made a grab for one of the containers she had set out on the table. He looked over at her again as Hermione moved in so that she was standing a mere two feet away.

Snape cleared his throat and loosened the top button of his collar. "If you could just back—back up a bit, Granger—Stop ruddy crowding me."

Hermione took a deliberately tiny step backwards. "Is that better?" she asked coyly.

Snape continued to stare at the jar in his hand, unable to identify it. Even something as basic as powdered Gila scales seemed beyond him. "N-no. A bit more," he stammered.

Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing as she took another tiny step. "How's that?" she asked, hoping she wasn't pushing her luck.

Snape was still staring at the jar, jaw twitching, frustration written plainly all over his face. "Yes — fine — that's — yes — very good," he growled, then cleared his throat as he continued to blink the sweat out of his eyes. Finally he nodded. "Chameleon fins — Lizard — I mean scales," he snapped, holding out the jar for her.

Hermione was nearly delirious with all the laughter she was forcing herself to withhold. What a perfect revenge this was! Hah! Now he was the foolish nitwit for a change. _Even__ more fun than I imagined — Mischief managed_, _indeed!_ she thought triumphantly to herself.

_Right. _Now... what sort of embarrassing questions could she ask him? Maybe she should start with his school days, or no his love life, _that _was sure to yield some entertaining stories. Then again, perhaps she could ask him about that time that he—

But Hermione didn't get to finish that thought, for just as she reached out to take the container from Snape's hand, he gave a sharp hiss and dropped it, immediately using that same hand to clamp across his left forearm.

The bottle fell and exploded in a shower of glass at Hermione's feet. She didn't spare it so much as a thought.

All of her attention was now riveted on the man in front of her.

Snape's eyes were wide and his entire body trembled freely. "Not like this," he breathed, and for the first time in all her years at Hogwarts, Hermione saw a look of terror flicker across Severus Snape's face. Pure, blind, unrestrained terror.

In usual Snape fashion, that look was gone an instant later and his face once more smoothed over into his customary expressionless mask. But just that one split-second was all it took to turn what had once been a game into the most dangerous, reckless, foolish thing Hermione had ever done.

How could she have been so stupid. How could she have been so selfish, so thoughtless as to addle the senses of the Order's most valuable spy? Snape couldn't go to Voldemort in this condition. He could barely even recognize his own ingredients, let alone protect his mind from one of the most skilled Legilimens in the world!

What had she done?

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, anything, that might explain herself.

But before she could utter a single word, Snape snatched the sleeve of her robes, pulled her close, glared intently into her eyes, snapped, "Inform Dumbledore," turned, and was gone.


	7. The Gift Given

**Chapter Seven**

Straight to Dumbledore. She had gone straight to Dumbledore that night and told him everything. About the potion, about Snape's reaction... and about where Snape had gone.

There was nothing they could do; even Dumbledore knew that. Any effort they made to rescue or contact Snape would only reveal his identity.

As for Hermione's part in this—her foolishness, her recklessness—Dumbledore made little comment. He simply sat very still, looked long and hard into her eyes, and then softly ordered her off to bed.

To bed! To _bed_! The thought of her sleeping peacefully while Snape was in such mortal peril, not to mention all because of her own blundering ineptitudes, was beyond comprehension. She had wanted Dumbledore to yell at her, to punish her, expel her even, if that's what it took. Instead he had simply brushed her aside as he would an inquisitive six-year-old, as though she were too young to be held responsible for her own actions.

But she _was _responsible. And her worry, her anger, her overwhelming guilt, was tearing her apart inside.

She couldn't just do nothing. She had to... find an antidote, send a message, steal Harry's cloak and run after Snape herself—anything but lie around twiddling her thumbs and telling herself she was doing all she could.

Hermione went into an almost maniacal frenzy over the next day and late into following night. She wouldn't sleep, wouldn't eat, so obsessed was she with finding the antidote to her monstrosity. She had somehow convinced herself that there was still time, and that she could somehow still repair the havoc she had wrought.

But it was taking far too long. Even by skipping her classes and her meals, and spending every waking moment poring over books, it was obvious that any antidote she made would take weeks to prepare. Weeks that Snape most certainly did not have.

Meanwhile, there was not a scrap of news. Not from Dumbledore, not from McGonagall, not from anyone. Voldemort could be killing Snape any second, and no one made a single move to help him. Hermione was rapidly spiraling into despair.

Finally, late that night, as she sat alone in the Room of Requirement, with only the partially assembled makings of a potion scattered on the floor around her, she made up her mind to go after Snape herself. She knew that she had gone mad. She didn't care. Everything was her fault, and she was damn well going to do something about it.

Hermione waited until well after midnight to make sure that everyone was asleep. Then she snuck into the boys' dormitory and stole Harry's cloak out of his trunk.

She was not thrilled by the idea of stealing from a friend, but she was unable to muster up the nerve to actually ask him for it to his face. In fact, she had not had the nerve to face _anyone _since Dumbledore. Shame of what she had done had driven her to avoid as much human contact as she possibly could. Which, painful though it was, included both Harry and Ron.

The castle was dark and still as Hermione traveled swiftly down several flights of stairs towards the front doors of Hogwarts. She had no idea where she would go once she made it out onto the grounds, nor how she planned to travel to wherever it was she was headed. Though at this point, she and logic were not the best of friends anymore. Unshed tears burned behind her eyes as she thought about the look on Snape's face before he had gone; that expression of helpless terror played ruthlessly over and over again in her head until she felt as though she very well might explode.

Finally, Hermione caught sight of the enormous wooden doors in the front entrance hall, and her mouth thinned with a determined scowl. No turning back—this was it.

Then, just as she gathered all her courage and wits about her, just as she was striding forward to close the distance between her and the outside world, the enormous doors burst open with a loud bang... and in stepped Snape.

Step might have been a bit of an exaggeration. He could barely even lift his feet from the ground. In fact, he was only able to stagger forward, inches at most, before collapsing heavily against the doorframe, his legs wobbling and shaking beneath him as though they were only moments away from giving out. His face was dangerously flushed, his breath coming in short, hitched gasps, and he was obviously, there was no denying, in a great amount of pain.

Without a moment's hesitation, Hermione threw off her cloak and ran towards him. "Professor!" she yelled.

Snape's eyes widened and he made a sharp noise of surprise at her sudden appearance. His shock did not last long, however, for he threw out a hand, motioning Hermione to stop before she had barely taken three steps. "Don't–" he gasped. "Don't touch me, Granger." His voice was rough, unpleasantly dry, and his hands trembled. He looked around. "No one else—No one else with you? You'll—have to do, then. L-listen, Granger, I—"

"Please, Professor, let me help, you look—"

"SHUT UP AND LISTEN," he barked, coughed violently, and then took a deep, wheezing breath. "You've got to—to tell—Dumbledore, I—Occlu... Occ..." He shook his head. "Occlumency... it didn't—I couldn't concentrate p-properly." Snape let out a short, barely muffled groan of pain and doubled over, slipping even further down the side of the doorframe.

_Couldn't concentrate properly_...

Hermione started towards him, but was stopped once again as Snape threw out a hand.

"I SAID DON'T TOUCH ME," he thundered, causing himself yet another coughing fit. "The Dark Lord knows," he 1continued haltingly, as though every word were an immense effort. "He knows about—Black—Headquarters..." Snape shook his head again, sweat pouring down his face and neck and his voice grating like sandpaper. "Terrible danger — Must send someone—to — Black needs — Black needs to leave — you — understand? RIGHT NOW!" Snape staggered again and sucked in a rattling breath. He managed to straighten up for a brief moment, silhouetted against the starlit darkness, and then... he suddenly gave a short, clipped gasp and his eyes went very wide. "Granger," he breathed. "Get Poppy."

Snape's eyes rolled in the back of his head and he collapsed directly into Hermione's arms. She crumpled beneath his weight, grunting as her back made hard contact with the floor. A moment later, Snape began to seize. His entire body convulsed violently back and forth as a terrible choking sound began to bubble up from the back of his throat, like some invisible enemy was slowly strangling him.

"HELP!" Hermione screeched, and with a mighty effort, turned Snape's body on its side in a desperate attempt to keep him from snapping his neck. "MADAM POMFREY! DUMBLEDORE! SOMEBODY PLEASE HELP!"

Hermione reached out to put a steadying hand on Snape's forehead. Instantly, she snatched it back with a yelp. His skin was scalding hot. She looked down at her hand and choked back a sob when she saw her fingertips already beginning to blister from simply that brief second of contact.

Meanwhile, Snape continued his violent convulsions, his body struggling relentlessly against Hermione's hold and the choking sound in the back of his throat growing louder all the time.

Feeling debilitated and helpless, Hermione pulled Snape's shoulders onto her lap and cradled his head in her hands, ignoring the searing heat that emanated from his skin as she tangled her fingers into a lock of dark hair at his temple. Snape rolled over then and coughed up... coughed up... blood. Dark red and boiling, all over Hermione's arms and lap. She hissed through her teeth as it scalded the tender skin of her forearms.

"No," Hermione whined, tears of pain and fear streaming down her face. "Please I don't know what... Professor you _can't_... PLEASE SOMEBODY HELP!"

"Good Lord."

Hermione whipped her head around to see a slack-jawed Nearly Headless Nick hovering just a few feet away.

"Help me!" she pleaded. "Or find someone who can—_please_!"

Nick nodded sharply, and without another word, zoomed off down a side hall.

The moment he was gone, Hermione began to rock back and forth, sobbing and sobbing until she felt as though her eyes were going to fall out. She still clutched that same lock of hair at Snape's temple in a tight, unrelenting grip, whispering over and over, "Please don't die, please don't die. I didn't mean to, I didn't, I'm sorry, Professor, I'm so sorry. Please don't die, please don't die..."

As the seconds ticked by, Hermione began to notice something else beyond the pain of her burns and the outright terror clouding her mind. She felt another, rather odd sensation. The sensation that something was happening inside her. As though something were being pulled out of her.

The hand holding Snape's hair suddenly exploded with heat, and Hermione let out another squeal of pain. For some reason, she found that she could not force herself to let go. She did not _want _to let go.

Snape's shaking soon reduced to an odd, half-hearted twitch, and his coughing stopped altogether. A thin trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth, his breathing turning dangerously shallow and ragged. Hermione closed her eyes, praying harder than she ever had in her life. She knew he was dying. Severus Snape was dying. And she couldn't do a thing to stop it.

At long last, Hermione heard the sound of footsteps.

Madam Pomfrey, flanked closely by McGonagall and Dumbledore, came flying down the stairs, all three in their nightclothes.

McGonagall's hair was a frazzled mess around her shoulders and her eyes were round as galleons as she skidded to a stop. "Good Heavens, Poppy," she breathed. "Look at her arms! Miss Granger, whose blood is that?"

"HELP!" Hermione screamed hysterically, her heart nearly bursting at the sight of them. "He's—he's—I don't know what's wrong with him but he's—Professor Dumbledore, please _help him_!"

"Yes, Miss Granger, it's alright, we're here now. We are going to help him."

Dumbledore knelt down beside Hermione, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the starlight that poured through the doorway, still wide open as Snape had left it. He put a hand to Snape's skin, and, just as Hermione had before, pulled back sharply, his fingertips red and raw.

"Poppy," he said gravely, never removing his eyes from Snape's face. "His fever is beyond…" His mouth thinned. "If we do not take action immediately, he will burn alive."

Madam Pomfrey held a hand over her mouth in horror, but she nodded. "Yes, Headmaster."

Hermione blinked hard. The world was starting to spin.

"Miss Granger, you need to let go now," said Dumbledore.

She nodded, sobbing violently as Madam Pomfrey and McGonagall stepped forward to magic Snape's body into the air. As Hermione finally allowed herself to release her professor and pull her throbbing arms back to her own sides, something gold flashed beneath her fingers. She squinted in disbelief. The lock of Snape's hair she had been holding, hair that had once been dark as coal, was now a brilliant, gleaming gold.

McGonagall and Dumbledore exchanged meaningful looks.

"I-is that…" Madam Pomfrey stuttered. "Did she just…?"

"Not now, Poppy," Dumbledore said firmly, turning his eyes to Snape's alarmingly still form once again. "Take him to the hospital wing."

Both Pomfrey and McGonagall obeyed immediately, quickly shepherding Snape's floating body down the hall.

"Come with me, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said kindly, putting a hand beneath her elbow and helping her to her feet.

"Wait!" Hermione cried, her mind flashing with the urgency of Snape's last words.

All three adults turned to look at her very intently.

"It's Sirius," she explained breathlessly. "Professor Snape said something about Sirius—and Headquarters." Her vision truly began to swim at that point, and her breath came short and labored. "He... he said that Voldemort knows about him—about Sirius—and about where the Ord– " Hermione stopped herself, delirious. Was Madam Pomfrey in the Order? She didn't know. It didn't matter! "Professor Snape says that Sirius is in danger... He said... Professor, somebody needs to warn him."

Dumbledore leapt to his feet. "Minerva—"

"I'll let you know when he's safe." And without even waiting for the Headmaster's affirmative nod, McGonagall turned and disappeared up the stairs, taking them two at a time, her loose hair flying wildly behind her.

With another nod from Dumbledore, Madam Pomfrey immediately continued on towards the hospital wing, accompanied by Snape's eerily floating body.

Once more, Dumbledore reached down in order to help Hermione to her feet.

"Thank you, Miss Granger," he said softly. "You have been through a trying ordeal, and, as always, have handled yourself admirably. More than admirably. There are almost no words to describe what you have done tonight."

Hermione blinked hard against her dizziness, an uncomfortable feeling welling up in the pit of her stomach. "Th—the professor's hair... what was—"

"A discussion for another time. At the moment, we need to get you to the hospital wing as well."

"Will he be okay? Will Professor Snape be okay? He... He was so..."

Dumbledore looked very tired. "I... cannot answer that, Miss Granger."

Hermione's tears poured afresh, feeling overwhelmingly large, white-hot and stinging her cheeks. Her vision lurched unpleasantly. Her legs buckled, but Dumbledore caught her. And then, with a strength surprising for one his age, Dumbledore swung her into his arms.

"My fault," Hermione whispered against his soft beard. "I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to…"

* * *

Consciousness returned very slowly to Hermione. First, came her hearing, second came feeling in her feet and legs, and then, with a shock of pain, feeling in her arms.

Hermione cracked an eye, wondering hazily why she was in the hospital wing, and why she felt misery embedded so deeply in the very fabric of her being.

Dumbledore sat in a chair by her bedside, gazing intently at her from behind his spectacles. Why had Dumbledore come to visit her? she wondered. There was only one person he ever came to see—so did that mean Harry was there too? What happened? Had Voldemort come back? Had they fought him? And why did her arms hurt so much? They felt almost as if... as if they had been...

Everything from the previous night suddenly came crashing back to Hermione and she sat up with a gasp. "Professor Snape—"

Dumbledore held up a hand. "Will recover, Miss Granger. Thanks to you." He smiled. "Of course, do not take it to heart if he does not recognize the magnitude of your generosity. Professor Snape is a very... reserved person. As I am sure you are well aware."

Hermione breathed a long, heart-felt sigh of relief and looked around the room to see a bed in the far corner with the curtain drawn.

She turned back to Dumbledore, knowing the conversation that must now take place, and dreading it terribly.

"Do you know what happened to him?" she asked quietly. "What was wrong with him? Why he..." She trailed off, her throat clenched too tightly to continue.

Dumbledore's face went grim. "Poison," he said simply. Then he waited until he had Hermione's eyes, and added firmly, "But not from you, Miss Granger. I do not believe he has even stepped foot in his laboratory this week."

Hermione's heart gave one almighty thud, and then she felt herself flooded with a deep, life-shattering relief—all the way from the tips of her hair to the ends of her toes. "Are – are you sure?" she said breathlessly, hardly daring to believe it.

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. During the... treatment... last night, Professor Snape became lucid enough to tell us that he had been poisoned by one of Lord Voldemort's followers. I believe he first came into contact with this poison during his absence earlier in the week. As for how and why this happened, I do not know for certain. Professor Snape was not able to tell us more than I have already shared with you. We will have to wait for him to wake before we can know the rest."

"You mean, he isn't awake yet?" Hermione said, stifling a yawn. Even through all of this excitement, Hermione felt an overwhelming wave of tiredness.

Dumbledore shook his head, giving her a small smile. "No, but I believe his body simply needs a rest. As does yours."

Hermione gave a groan and fell back into her pillows. Her head was pounding and her arms were achy and painful beneath a thorough wrapping of bandages.

She felt like she was forgetting something...

Hermione sat up with another gasp. "Sirius! What about—"

She jumped as something gave a loud bark by her feet.

A big black dog padded out from behind the footboard of her bed and trotted over to put its front paws on her sheets. Despite the pain, Hermione threw her arms around the dog and hugged him tight. "Sirius, I'm so glad you're alright."

He licked her cheek and she giggled.

Amazing, how quickly things could turn around. Just hours ago she felt like she wanted to throw herself under a bus, and now she was laughing.

Dumbledore chuckled as well. "Yes, _Padfoot _will be staying with us here at the castle. A brief visit, until we are able to make other arrangements." He looked at Sirius and raised an eyebrow. "Of course, he is not supposed to be seen in public areas..."

Sirius gave a small whine and nudged his wet nose under Hermione's bandaged palm.

"I know. Quite right. But now that you have seen Miss Granger and confirmed that she is indeed alive and well, I am going to have to ask you not to make an appearance again. Is that understood? We can never be too careful."

The dog gave a gruff snort that sounded an awful lot like a "Yes, sir!" and then turned and bounded out the door.

The moment Sirius left, Hermione felt herself overcome again, and she fell back against her pillows. "Why do I feel so horrible?" she groaned. "I wasn't the one who was poisoned."

There was a long pause and then Dumbledore spoke again, softly, as though he were broaching a very delicate subject. "When you were holding onto Professor Snape, what did you feel?"

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean, what did I feel? His blood was boiling holes through my skin, he was about to die in my arms, nobody was around to help... I felt scared, Professor. More scared than I have ever felt."

"I imagine you were, Miss Granger, and certainly I do not blame you. What I mean to say is, was there anything else that you felt? Anything... abnormal, so to speak."

Hermione's head was pounding and her eyelids felt heavy as lead. Still, she knew exactly what he was talking about. She distinctly remembered the feeling that had stirred within her as she held Snape in her arms. That feeling of... draining.

She glanced up at Dumbledore who nodded, an instant, unspoken understanding having passed between them.

"_Largitio,_" he explained. "In rough Latin, it means 'I give' or 'I bestow.' This magic is very old, very powerful, and very difficult to explain. Not even I fully understand how it works."

Hermione fought off sleep as hard as she could, determined to see this conversation through to the end.

"Somehow," Dumbledore continued, "without you knowing, something inside you recognized the peril that the Professor was in, and responded." He gave a heavy sigh and shook his head. "As I said, I have no idea how this magic works, nor how you triggered it. But, somehow, last night, Miss Granger, you gave some of yourself—your life energy, your spirit energy, whatever you wish to call it—you gave some of that to Professor Snape. You, quite literally, saved his life with a little of your own. That, perhaps, is the reason why you feel so worn out. Your body is trying to regenerate that energy."

Hermione blinked hard against the waves of dizziness and exhaustion that were crashing through her. "You mean... Is that why his hair turned gold? Is that where my... whatever, was being... transferred?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I believe so. In every similar incident that has happened in the past—and there have not been many—there have always been two marks." He turned his head towards Snape's bed. "One on the receiver." He looked at Hermione. "And one on the giver."

Hermione immediately grabbed handfuls of her hair and began pulling them in front of her face, checking to see if any of the locks had changed color. They hadn't. "I don't understand," she said. "Where's my mark?"

Dumbledore pointed to her hand. "I'm sure that once those bandages come off, you will have your answer." He stood. "No more talking now. It is time for you to rest."

"But I'm not tired," Hermione whined, completely undermining herself as she let out an enormous yawn.

"Sleep well, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said with a smile. "And thank you for what you did for Professor Snape. You are a very special girl."

* * *

The next time Hermione woke, there was no one waiting by her bedside. There was, however, a very significant supply of cards, chocolate frogs, and Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans. Clearly, Ron had been by, because some of the wrappers had already been opened along with a half-eaten box of Ice-Mice.

She sat up and looked around, rubbing her eyes groggily. Professor Snape's bed was empty—as was every other bed in the room. How much time had passed?

Slowly, she peeled back the covers and sat on the edge of her bed. Her arms were still a bit sore, but nothing to what they used to be.

"Madam Pomfrey?" she called, eyeing her bandages warily.

There was no response.

"May I take the bandages off?" she called again. She was dying to know what sort of mark had been left.

Again, there was no response from Madam Pomfrey, and so, shrugging, Hermione carefully unwrapped the cloth from around her right hand. She gasped as the bandage fell away and revealed a long tapered line that stretched diagonally across her palm. Only, the mark wasn't gold. It was black.


	8. The Gift Received

**Chapter Eight**

By the next day, Madam Pomfrey at last declared Hermione "fit as a fiddle" and granted her clearance to return to her regularly scheduled classes. Hermione, feeling far too much like an animal being released back into the wild after an inappropriate amount of coddling, all but sprinted to the library the moment she exited the hospital wing, arms soon laden with textbooks, her mind already furiously assembling a lengthy to-do list. She could not stand the hospital wing. Even with constant visits from her friends (whom all barraged her with questions about _exactly _what had happened that night, for she refused to disclose any details), she still felt the ache of isolation.

At least the mark on her hand seemed to have faded somewhat over the night. It was now a much healthier looking grayish flesh color, though still smarted whenever she flexed her fingers. Madam Pomfrey informed her that it would probably continue to bother her for years to come before the disconcerting sensation would entirely go away.

_Terrific_, she thought_. And on my right hand. Naturally._

On the bright side, Madam Pomfrey had also bestowed Hermione with a whole two bottles of Dreamless Sleep to "aid her recovery," and so she had at least a few weeks of solid rest in her immediate future.

Something else she found herself eagerly anticipating, was a run-in with Snape. She desperately wanted a peek at that lock of golden hair. Every time she considered the fact that her sacrifice had left some sort of permanent mark upon him, her stomach did a funny little flip-flop. She wondered what he thought about _Largitio_, and if he knew any more about it than Dumbledore.

Of course, she could not help feeling slightly miffed that he had not come to see her himself. Didn't he care if she was alright? She did save his life after all, and he hadn't so much as sent her a conciliatory thank you.

Oh well, maybe he'd say something in Potions…

* * *

"Hermione, what _is _the matter?"

"Nothing," Hermione muttered gloomily. She sat with her cheek on her hand and her eyes glazed and unfocused as she half-heartedly stirred the cauldron in front of her.

His mark wasn't there.

Professor Snape's hair seemed just as black and greasy as always. And to top it off, he hadn't so much as looked her way since class began.

Hermione's first thought was that the gold had simply faded, like the mark on her hand. But his hair wasn't even slightly miss-colored. According to Madam Pomfrey, in all of the cases like this in the past (though, again, she had stressed, there had not been many), both marks had been permanent—albeit faded over time. With a pang of sadness, Hermione realized that Snape must have done something to get rid of it completely.

So, that's how it was going to be, was it? He was just going to pretend like it never happened? Hermione gritted her teeth as her face flushed with anger. _Well, yes, alright, yes, that's fine. Let him be a boorish brute, for all I care. It'll just make him easier to hate!_

Yes, indeed. Let him go on and fester in his solitude. That solved her problem.

Hermione's rapidly worsening headache gave a particularly unpleasant twinge and she groaned, burying her face in her hands. In the back of her mind, she knew it was juvenile, but weariness seemed to have magnified her sensitivities, and she couldn't remember ever feeling this betrayed.

Ron prodded her in the side. "Hermione?" he whispered. "You alright? You don't look so good..."

Hermione waved a hand (which she dimly noticed was trembling) and dabbed her forehead on her sleeve. "I'm fine, Ron," she muttered. "I'm just... well, never mind."

No, she did notthink this was the appropriate time to pour out her long-hidden feelings about her bitter and snarky Potions Professor.

"Hermione, I really don't think you—"

"Is there a problem, Mr. Weasley?" Snape's deep, monotone voice cut through the relative quiet of the classroom.

Ron's face set determinedly. "Yes, Professor, there is," he said as Hermione tugged frantically on his sleeve. "I think Hermione might be—ouch!"

Hermione dug her heel into Ron's toes. "I said, I'm _fine_," she ground out.

She undermined that statement a moment later by groaning again, the world around her lurching and heaving beneath her feet. "I—I'm fine," she repeated as she put another shaking hand to her forehead, sweat gathering at her temples. Her face felt very hot.

All of a sudden there was a loud bang as Snape stood up from his desk so fast that his chair crashed spectacularly to the floor. "To the hospital wing, Miss Granger," he said loudly, his eyes wide and blazing. "_This instant._"

Hermione was quite taken aback. "Oh, no, that's alright, really, Professor, I feel f–"

She stopped talking immediately as Snape began to stride towards her at an alarmingly swift pace. She barely had time to react before he wrapped a strong hand around her upper arm, yanked her out of her chair, and then began to physically drag her towards the door.

Through the haze of her fever—and overwhelming confusion at his strange behavior—Hermione still felt a startlingly pleasant jump in her gut as she realized that Snape was voluntarily touching her.

"You!" Snape snapped, pointing at an open-mouthed Neville and motioning for him to take Hermione's arm.

After a split-second's hesitation, Neville obeyed.

"Take her to the hospital wing—quickly. Do not stop anywhere, for any purpose. Straight there, do you understand?"

Neville nodded fervently, his mouth still slack with surprise.

Hermione held onto Neville's arm like a lifeline, wondering hazily what in the world could be wrong with her. Her legs began to tremble. She felt like her entire body was on fire, as though she had moments ago wandered absent-mindedly through a pool of molten hot lava. "Do you think it's—" she started to say, but, before she could finish her sentence, Snape flung open the door, pushed the two of them out into the hall, shouted "GO!" and then disappeared back into the classroom, the door slamming sharply behind him.

"I—I think we should go on, Hermione. Ron's right. You don't look so good."

"…Thanks, Neville."

* * *

Severus stood in front of the thick wooden door, his eyes narrowed and his jaw rigid. The only part of him that moved was his chest as he breathed in and out, deep and slow.

He had been standing in place for almost five full minutes, never making a sound, never making any move to open the door. If anyone asked him what he was doing there, he could easily make up an excuse. Because, the truth was, he did not really know.

There was still half a bottle of Dreamless Sleep left, and he hadn't made enough progress on his projects since his recovery to be worthy of notifying Madam Pomfrey. The only reason he was there, he decided, was to confirm to himself that he had been right. He wanted to be certain that his behavior had been entirely rational (which it always was, of course, but he wanted to be absolutely certain; certainty was not something he encountered often, and so he hung on, tooth and nail, to any granule of it he could manage to find).

Finally, with a determined scowl, Severus reached out and turned the handle. He cracked the door just enough to peek inside and confirm that no one else was there, before at last entering the hospital wing.

Hermione Granger was asleep, just as she had been the last time he had seen her in that very same bed only a few days previously.

One arm rested limply over her middle, while the other—her right—lay to her side, palm up, her tiny fingers loosely curled.

Severus's eyes narrowed. Even from as far away as the door, he could see it: That thick, tapered line across her skin, thrown so starkly into contrast by her marble-white complexion. A significant portion of her forearms had been re-bandaged and there were alarmingly dark circles under her eyes. She looked so infinitesimal, almost ethereal in her sleep, as though if he opened a window, a slight breeze might come in and carry her away.

Severus scowled.

He hadn't asked for her help. He commanded her not to touch him. He told her to go to Poppy. It wasn't his fault.

"What are you doing here?"

Severus whipped around to find a familiar glare directed his way.

Perfect, just what he needed. An over-protective mother hen.

Severus sneered. "I'm fine, by the way, Minerva, thank you for asking."

McGonagall rolled her eyes. "Don't get fresh, Severus—I am not in the mood to argue."

"My mistake," he growled.

There was a pause as the two of them stared each other down, both just as prickly and stubborn as the other.

"So?" McGonagall finally quipped. "You look healthy enough to me. What are you doing here?"

Severus's jaw twitched. "Poppy expressed a wish for stock replacements," he lied smoothly and then crossed his arms over his chest, turning his gaze once more to Hermione's sleeping form.

McGonagall watched him with wary eyes. "I will ask again, Severus," she said quietly. "Why are you here?"

"Right," he snapped at last, hating himself for it. "I've come to see the girl. What's wrong with her, then?"

McGonagall paused for a long time, trying to find the right words. Her expression remained impassive and unreadable.

"Poison," she replied at last. "Just as you suspected."

Then Hermione gave a soft moan from her bed and moved slightly in her sleep.

McGonagall motioned Severus to follow her out the door.

"We believe," she continued, once they were in the hall, "that she came into contact with the poison when you—when you're—when she was…"

"For fuck's sake, Minerva, say it. When I _bled _on her."

McGonagall's mouth thinned further. "Yes, well, in any case, her symptoms worsened much faster than yours. Perhaps something to do with it being administered directly into the blood stream. I believe you drank yours, is that correct?"

Severus's voice was dangerously quiet. "Yes. A Death Eater desired an antidote that I refused to make, so he decided to give me... extra incentive."

"I'm sorry, Severus... that you... were put through such a dreadful—"

He rolled his eyes. "Spare me that sentimental tripe. You know very well that if I hadn't slipped up, all of this could have easily been avoided. I let my guard down, I wasn't paying attention. It was my mistake—I deserved the consequences."

"Miss Granger did not deserve those consequences," McGonagall replied softly.

Anger rippled across Severus's face. "If I remember correctly, _she_ was the one out of bed and wandering the halls in the middle of the night! _She _was the one who disobeyed me! The reasons for Miss Granger's condition are entirely of her own doing."

There was another slight pause.

"She's going to be alright, you know," McGonagall said eventually, glancing at the closed door. She turned back to him and her face softened slightly. "You were right to send her, Severus. If we hadn't caught it in time..."

"Thank you, Minerva. That was all I needed to know." And with that, Severus turned smartly on his heels and stalked away, leaving McGonagall glaring moodily at his back.

* * *

Once again, Hermione found herself waking up beneath the familiar ceiling of the hospital wing. The bandages on her arms had returned (the poison must have re-inflamed some of the burns) and her head was pounding so hard that she felt as though it were about to split in two.

Madam Pomfrey forced her at wand point to remain another full day and a night, before once again releasing her back to her classes. By that time, Hermione was nearly hysterical about all the work she had missed.

But, Hermione was Hermione, and tigers never change their stripes—and so, though it took her, perhaps, a bit longer than she would have liked to catch up, she soon felt almost normal again. Apart from the fact that she now avoided Snape at all costs (she had made no move to return to her private lessons), everything was just as it had been. Sleepwalking included.

* * *

"Miss Granger, you will stay behind. There is something we need to discuss."

Hermione nearly fell out of her chair in surprise when Snape looked up from his desk at the end of class and directly addressed her for the first time in a week.

"You go ahead," she whispered to Harry and Ron as they both hung back with utterly appalled looks on their faces.

"What did you do?" Ron asked quietly.

Hermione shook her head, her heart thumping in her chest. "I have no idea."

They both gave her a sympathetic pat on the back and then, with whispered promises of meeting her for lunch, they took off.

Hermione took a deep, calming breath before approaching the professor's desk.

"You wished to speak with me?" she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "I know I've not yet turned in last week's essay, but I only have a paragraph left to complete, and you did say that it wasn't due until–"

"This is not about school work," he said bluntly, cutting her off.

Hermione swallowed nervously. "Oh…" She paused, waiting for him to go on.

Snape sat back in his chair and leveled a very intimidating gaze at her from behind his desk. "The Headmaster has insisted that I speak to you about..." He pursed his lips. "About what happened the other night."

Hermione did not need him to elaborate for her to know what he meant.

She cleared her throat nervously. "Oh. Yes. I see..." Absent-mindedly she clasped her hands behind her back and traced the mark on her palm with her thumb, strangely comforted by the sharp twinge that traveled up her arm every time she did so.

"I will have you know that I intend for this conversation to be very brief," he continued icily, "and that once it has ended, I expect this subject never to be mentioned again, is that understood?"

Hermione nodded numbly. This did not sound like a thank you, or an apology…

"Certainly you are aware how wizard etiquette requires me to bestow you with some manner of gift in recompense for saving my... that is, for your actions."

What? No, Hermione was certainly _not _aware of this. Had she heard him wrong?

"To be perfectly honest, I would not even be honoring this ridiculous sentiment if not for the Headmaster. But, as it is…"

Snape trailed off and Hermione took this opportunity to interject. "You..." she began timidly. "You mean to say, you're.. going to give me a present?"

Snape rolled his eyes impatiently, discomfort ingrained in ever line of his body. "Once again, Granger, your wit and gifts of observation astound me. Yes, as inane and ludicrous as it sounds, I am forced to bestow you with a gift." His face contorted as though revolted by the very thought. He took a deep breath. "So," he snapped. "What exactly is it that you want? And may I remind you that I am not, in essence, a very generous man."

"I get to choose?" Hermione asked, bewildered. This was all very surreal.

"Must I spell it out for you, Granger? Yes, you may have anything your insipid little heart desires—as long as it's small, inexpensive, insignificant, and that you never reveal its benefactor to anyone for as long as you live."

_Well, then…_

Hermione had absolutely no idea what to say. She was literally more of a loss for words than... well, ever. "I... uh... I mean... I don't exactly..." She raced to think of something, anything, to say. But there wasn't anything she wanted. At least not anything small, inexpensive or insignificant.

Then again, this was a chance she would most likely never have again. She just needed time to think—to figure this out.

"For Merlin's sake," Snape finally snapped. "Get on with it, or, despite the Headmaster's wishes, I will forget the whole thing."

Desperately Hermione spouted out the first thing that came to her head. "I don't know—can't I—It only seems proper—can't I just have, maybe, a sort of a carte blanche?"

"I beg your pardon?"

Hermione smiled.

"A blank check, Professor."

* * *

That irritating, infuriating, _presumptuous _girl.

Severus stormed through the dark halls of Hogwarts on one of his regular midnight patrols, his hand itching madly to draw his wand and blast the nearest suit of armor into a thousand pieces.

Where did she come off thinking that she could demand something like that of him? A blank check? What the bloody hell sort of nonsensical, delirium-induced, fuckwit kind of an answer was that?

Severus had fought the girl, of course—but, surprisingly, her confidence never wavered. She argued that she 'needed time to think about it' and that as far as she was concerned, her answer 'fit his specifications,' emboldened, perhaps, by the idea that Dumbledore was behind it all.

As far as Severuswas concerned, a blank check was neither insignificant nor inexpensive—at least, he assumed it wouldn't be when 'cashed'. And even the thought of someone, her especially, being able to hold something over him for an indefinite period of time was more than enough to turn his stomach.

All of this had happened days ago, but it still made him furious every time he thought about it—and he thought about it often. Why this bothered him so much, he hadn't a clue. Was it more than the fact that he abhorred being held in suspense in such a way? Why couldn't she just choose something and be done with it?

Maybe she would forget the whole thing and he wouldn't have to bother at all.

Severus turned a corner and looked up just in time to see the brief flash of a white-clad figure disappear through a side doorway that led to the main staircases.

A cruel smile spread across his face as he realized that he had caught a student out of bed. Severus quickened his pace. It had been too long since he had knocked off a few hundred points in one go. He hoped it was a Ravenclaw—they could certainly stand to lose a few.

As he reached the doorway, Severus looked through and saw, to his immense surprise, a familiar bushy brown head disappear down a flight of stairs.

"Granger!" he snapped, rushing to the head of the stairs. "Stop right there!"

It was indeed Hermione Granger, and though she stopped on the landing just below him, she did not turn around to face him. She was in her nightgown, for some reason. Even from behind she looked absurdly frazzled and exhausted as always.

"What do you think you're doing out of your dormitory?" Snape hissed. "This is the second time now that you have been—LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M SPEAKING TO YOU!"

Hermione's body slowly turned around, an odd vacant expression on her face. Severus was not paying attention to this; all focus he could spare was riveted on the fact that she had still declined to respond to him, which made him furious. "ANSWER ME, GRANGER!" he bellowed.

Suddenly, Hermione's eyelids—which had been drooping with what he had simply assumed was exhaustion—snapped open, her brown eyes now looking wide and round with fear. Her mouth formed a small "oh" of surprise, and then, just as Snape realized that she had been sleepwalking and that startling her was probably the worst thing he could have done, Hermione's eyes rolled back in her head and she fell in a dead faint...

Only, she kept falling.

All the way down the long, marble staircase.

The first thought that entered Severus's mind as the girl's body crashed to the ground was that he had just inadvertently killed Hermione Granger.

With a sharp pain now squeezing at his chest, Severus catapulted himself down the stairs, taking them three at a time. He came sliding to a halt by the girl's alarmingly still form and fell to his knees, instantly putting a finger to her throat to check for a pulse.

Then he let out his breath with a relieved whoosh. She was alive.

Severus sat back on his heels, his hands shaking as he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. He took a deep breath, easing the tenseness in his face, schooling his expression, and once again transforming himself into the stoic exterior that he had spent so many years learning to cultivate.

Next, he slowly and methodically checked the girl's arms and legs, and anywhere else he deemed relevant, for broken bones. Finding none, but still wary of her condition, Severus magicked Hermione's limp body into the air and set out, once again, for the hospital wing. After all, you could never be too careful.


	9. Too Many Surprises

**Chapter Nine**

Hermione was getting very tired of waking up in the hospital wing. In fact, she was almost beginning to wonder if she might surpass Harry in number of hours spent under Madam Pomfrey's tiresomely watchful eye - and all in a matter of weeks, no less.

It was not unusual for her to feel disoriented when she first woke after an accident (she was hardly a stranger to them), but this time it was different. This time she didn't even have the faintest idea why she was there.

Slowly, Hermione opened her eyes and turned over to find Ginny Weasley sitting in a chair by the bed, humming quietly as she peeled an orange.

"What happened?" Hermione croaked.

Ginny looked startled, nearly dropping her orange. Then she smiled. "Good morning," she said cheerily, setting the fruit down on Hermione's beside table. "Sick of these springy old beds yet?"

Hermione laughed weakly. "Yes." Her eyebrows furrowed. "But…"

"What?"

"Why am I here?"

Ginny winced apologetically. "Sorry, I should have assumed... I don't exactly know all the details myself. Madam Pomfrey said you were sleepwalking and–"

"Was I really?" Hermione groaned. She vaguely remembered having gone to sleep without taking her potion—a little experiment, just to see whether or not the dreams had stopped. Obviously they hadn't.

Hermione's head began to pound and she closed her eyes again, wishing she could just sink right through the mattress. Her entire body felt as though it had been run over by a five-ton truck. "What happened?" she moaned. "Did I fall down a flight of stairs or something?"

"Two, actually, according to Professor Snape."

Hermione stomach gave an unpleasant lurch and her eyes snapped open. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said you fell down two flights of stairs."

"No, the bit afterwards. I thought you said Professor Snape."

Ginny made face. "Yes, _him_. You wouldn't believe how rude he was when I asked–"

"Ginny, why does Professor Snape know how many flights of stairs I fell down?"

Ginny sighed and gave Hermione a consoling pat on the hand. "He was the one who found you last night. Apparently he startled you and you fainted, falling all the way down the main staircase. If you don't mind me saying, you really do have the most rotten luck."

Hermione pulled the blankets over her face and groaned again.

* * *

How did these things happen?

Once again Hermione found herself back in Professor Snape's lab, cleaning shelves and re-labeling bottles.

The nerve - the idiocy - that _bastard_. She had saved his life, he nearly took hers, and yet he still expected her to fulfill her _four _remaining detentions! Hermione took a deep, calming breath. This was fine. She could do this. She was over him. No more silly, smitten, schoolgirl nitwit. For Heaven's sake, she hoped not, at least. It was a sure sign that something needed to change when a person's behavior revolted even herself.

Snape was a jerk, Hermione was tired of it, and now she was moving on. If this hadn't "cured" her of her infatuation, then surely there was little hope of anything else doing the trick.

Though... she did seem to be catching his eyes more often than usual. And every time she did, her stomach gave a funny little jump of excitement. Finally, after about the fifth time of hurriedly and awkwardly looking away, Hermione decided to just keep her head down and not look in his direction at all.

She was determined to do her work, stay quiet, and for once in what seemed like forever, actually leave the room without having some sort of embarrassing outburst. Honestly, it had been a while since she had acted like a normal, non-hysterical human being around him.

Hermione finished labeling a jar of newt tails and lazily reached for the next bottle. Then, just as her hand closed around the container, she froze, her eyes growing wide and round, her breath all but stopping in her throat.

The jar she was holding was very familiar. Very familiar and strangely sticky...

"That's Armadillo Bile, Miss Granger. Can you honestly not recognize — WATCH IT!"

Hermione gave a yelp and dropped the crystal container on the floor, where it exploded in a shower of glass and yellow-orange liquid.

Already, she could feel her heart quickening and her cheeks beginning to flush.

"What's wrong with you?" Snape growled, throwing her a rag. "Clean that up. And five points from Gryffindor."

Hermione picked up the rag with shaking hands, trying desperately to ignore her thundering heartbeat and the way that Snape's deep, stormy voice all of a sudden sent euphoric shivers down her spine.

How could she have been so stupid!

"Miss Granger," Snape hissed after a short pause.

Hermione gulped, her stomach quivering at the sound of her name being spoken. "Y-yes?"

"Is something wrong?"

"Yes," she replied before she even knew what had left her mouth.

_The veritaserum!_

Snape raised his eyebrows, waiting for her continue. "Is it something of which I should be informed?"

"Yes," Hermione said again and then clapped a hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut. _This isn't happening, this isn't happening…_

"Well," Snape eventually snapped. "What is it?"

Before she had the chance to say something else she knew she was going to regret, Hermione leapt to her feet, snatched her book bag off her chair, muttered a very breathy "I have to go," and then bolted out the door as fast as her feet could carry her.

So much for a non-hysterical exit.

That was probably her worst yet.

* * *

Hermione did not go to breakfast the next morning, taking every possible precaution she could in order to avoid her fellow classmates. Fortunately, this task proved a lot easier owing to the fact that it was Saturday, and she was therefore not forced to sit all day in a classroom filled with people who would love nothing more than to make a complete fool out of her (for example, Draco Malfoy).

She simply hid away in the library and read for hours upon hours, trying desperately to ignore her flushed, heated face, her pounding heart, and an almost overwhelming desire to run to Snape's office and confess absolutely everything.

Hermione obsessed a little more than was probably healthy about how she must have looked, running out of his office with her hands clamped over her mouth. He must think her a maniac. How was she possibly going to explain her behavior?

"Sorry, Professor Snape, it was the potion that made me do it," she might say.

"What potion?" he would undoubtedly reply.

"Oh, just a little something I secretly concocted in order to ruin your reputation and make you look like a dunderhead in front of the entire school. Shame it didn't work out."

Somehow, Hermione did not think that would blow over very well.

But what should she do? She had to come up with an excuse. And even if she managed one, should she approach him first? Or should she wait for him to approach her? (She couldn't help thinking that the latter was a highly unlikely probability). Hermione had always been a very pro-active person at heart, and yet due to these recent circumstances, she seemed to be a bit lacking in the self-confidence department. She desperately wished she could go back in time and erase everything that had happened in the past few weeks. Damn it all to hell, she missed that time turner.

Fortunately, her most recent mistake (namely, blundering into her own booby-trap), wore off around mid-day, just in time for Hermione to hurry to the great hall and eat lunch with her friends.

Of course, if she had known what was going to happen that afternoon, she might not have been quite so keen to hurry.

* * *

Ron Weasley certainly was acting strange.

Hermione frowned as Ron, yet again, looked hurriedly away and ignored her request for him to pass the strawberry jam.

In fact, everyone seemed to be giving her odd looks. But only out of the corners of their eyes, and when they thought she wasn't paying attention. Somehow, Hermione got the feeling that she was in the middle of some large, elaborate joke that everyone else had neglected to let her in on.

"What's the matter with all of you!" she finally snapped. "Is there something happening, or about to happen, that I should know about? What, have I sprouted tentacles or-"

Ginny jumped up from the table. "Let's go for a walk," she said suddenly. "It's such a nice day outside."

Harry and Neville immediately followed suit.

"Yes, it _is _rather nice."

"And I've been meaning to pop by the greenhouses."

Ron stood as well, though he did not offer any excuse. His face was very red.

As the five of them set out on a leisurely stroll through the humid, gloomy, overcast grounds, Hermione relentlessly attempted to weasel out of someone exactly what they were hiding from her.

Finally, once they reached the pond, Harry, Ginny, and Neville all simultaneously remembered somewhere they had to be and made an immediate about-face towards the castle, leaving Ron and Hermione alone.

Hermione watched them go with narrowed eyes.

"Well," she said at last. "That was weird."

Ron mumbled a quiet agreement, his face still flushed.

Hermione turned and gave him a piercing look. "What _is _it with you, Ron? You've been acting like this all morning."

Ron closed his eyes and took a deep breath as though to brace himself for something. Then he looked back at her with a very strange expression on his face, one which Hermione had very rarely seen directed at her before, and had sincerely hoped that she would never see from Ron.

Hesitantly, and with such a sincere, bewildered awkwardness it was sweetly painful, Ron reached down and took Hermione's hand up in his own.

"Hermione... there's something I've been wanting to tell you for, well, for a long time, now, I guess…"

_Oh dear... Ooooh dear..._

"You see – I — er — well, that is to say —

_No, Ron, don't do it, don't say it, don't—_

"I fancy you, Hermione... as more than a friend."

_Bugger. _

Then, as Ron then leaned in for what Hermione could only assume would be his very best, heartfelt attempt at love's first kiss, she desperately tried think of a way to thoroughly and convincingly reject Ron without him actually feeling rejected.

She had the sneaking suspicion that this was not going to end well.

* * *

Severus Snape had, of course, known about Granger's little potion all along. After all, what sort of spy would he be if he couldn't recognize a less-than-mediocre booby trap sloppily placed in such an obvious manner by a silly eighteen-year-old girl?

Severus snorted as he glanced out a nearby window and saw said girl stumbling through the grounds after her friends.

He was marginally aggrieved that she had left so hurriedly the other night. He hadn't even had a chance to take away points, or experience the unique pleasure of watching a deranged know-it-all make a fool out of herself.

Then again, just knowing that the whole thing had blown up in her face was nearly as satisfying.

Severus made to turn away from the window, but paused when he saw something that made him feel extremely... odd.

Ron Weasley was holding Granger's hand in a suspiciously intimate manner.

Severus's dark eyes narrowed. Had there been... developments... in the Weasley-Granger-will-they-won't-they battle of teenage hormones of which he was only now just becoming aware?

His stomach churned at the thought.

Then, to his ever-mounting horror, Weasley leaned in for what Severus could only assume would be the most pathetic excuse for a kiss the world had ever seen, and he was about to turn hurriedly away in disgust when he noticed that Granger actually seemed to be turning away in disgust herself.

To say Severus was surprised would have been a gross understatement.

He watched as Granger pushed at Weasley's shoulders, obviously trying to be gentle, but also just as obviously trying desperately to avoid having the boy's freckled lips slobbering all over her face.

Weasley, however, was not heading her protests. He continued in his attempts to kiss her, his mind obviously clouded by a temporary yet fervent hormone-induced insanity. His hands were holding onto her shoulders like steel clamps and Granger seemed to be almost hysterical in her efforts to break free.

Severus felt bile rise in the back of his throat. Without warning his every instinct was screaming for him to hurl a terrible hex out the window and directly into Ron Weasley's left ear. Severus actually had his wand halfway out of his pocket when Granger all of a sudden gained freedom of her arm, gave the boy a sharp, solid slap, and then stormed off towards the castle, bushy hair flying behind her and her face red as a firecracker.

Severus looked down at the fist that was still clenched in a white-knuckled grip on his wand and tried to asses exactly what had come over him.

He had very nearly pulled his wand on a student — something he had never done in all his years at Hogwarts (save a few mandatory exceptions involving, of course, Harry Potter).

What was wrong with him? There was something different about the feeling welling up in his gut and he couldn't, for the life of him, place what it was.

He felt so... odd.

There wasn't another word for it.

He just felt very... odd.

* * *

It was late, Hermione was out of bed, and, once again, it was completely involuntary.

Even the Dreamless Sleep was no longer doing its part. That is, it was working in the sense that she did not have any dreams, but clearly that memo was no longer being passed on to the rest of her body, for she was obviously still sleepwalking.

Hermione rolled her eyes when she peeked out from beneath a strange white curtain and realized that she had come to rest beneath the professor's dinning table in the Great Hall.

She glanced at the nearest clock and sighed. At least it was still early, just shy of three in the morning, so she still had plenty of time to get back to her dorm before daybreak. This would also mean that she had to sneak her way through the eerie, tomb-like hallways without even a wand to light her way.

She always hated that part.

Hermione stopped and cocked her head on her way out of the Great Hall as she heard incoherent noises coming from the grounds.

She could hear people screaming... There was a strange hissing sound... And was someone yelling…

"FIRE!"

At that, Hermione broke instantly into a run and raced as fast as she could to the front doors of the castle. She threw them open and felt her legs nearly give out beneath her as she was met with a shocking, dizzying sight: The Forbidden Forest was on fire.

Enormous, crackling flames towered hundreds of feet into the sky as columns of ominous smoke blotted out the stars. Screams were coming from what appeared to be the entire staff of Hogwarts and two thirds of its students. They were all running about with gallons of water shooting out of the tips of their wands as they desperately tried to control the rapidly growing flames. Now she knew what the hissing sound had been.

Without another moment lost, Hermione turned and catapulted herself as fast as she could back up the stairs towards her dormitory to retrieve her wand.

How long had this been going on? Surely not more than an hour or two, or someone would have seen her sleepwalking. Then again, with all the people running around, she doubted anyone would have noticed her.

Hermione blazed through the Gryffindor common room, sparing only a quick glance to note that it was mostly filled with First and Second Years, plus one remaining Prefect to keep them calm (Neville, of course). She had a brief moment of panic when she didn't immediately find her wand on the bedside table, but after a quick scan of the room, she found it poking out from beneath her bed. She snatched it up, and was off again, racing through the castle with only one thought in her mind: Voldemort was on the offensive.

Who else could it be? This wasn't just any ordinary forest fire (not that the Forbidden Forest was ever prone to anything ordinary, least of all something as destructive as a fire), and there was no way that any of the students, or even most of the staff for that matter, could be capable of unleashing such an attack. There was very strong magic that protected that forest and Hermione shuddered to think what kind of power it had taken to penetrate it.

Hermione flew across the grounds, the tail end of her nightgown flapping in the wind, her nose soon engulfed by the thick, pungent smell of smoke.

"Everyone, be careful!" Dumbledore was shouting calmly to the frenzied crowd. He stood at the edge of the forest, still in his powder blue nightgown and cap, spraying a torrent of water in a zigzag pattern across the blazing trees in front of him. "If we are going to do this, we must all work together. Minerva, if you could please direct some of your seventh years in that direction. Yes. Right there, where it's spreading to the grass — Oh dear, Miss Patil, your slipper seems to have caught fire. Be careful now! Everyone be careful and work together!"

Hermione rushed to help Parvati put her slipper out, and before the flustered girl could even stammer a thank you, Hermione was already off again. She rushed over to help a group of Third Year Hufflepuffs who were struggling vainly with an enormous, uprooted tree shrub that was rolling like a blazing tumbleweed halfway across the grounds. They extinguished it, and after pausing a moment to correct a little girl's grip on her wand, Hermione then went to join the rest of the Gryffindor Seventh Years, who, though they struggled mightily, where not making much progress.

So the night wore on, everyone fighting the fire with relentless determination, taking shifts as the wounded nursed their burns or simply took a rest. They seemed to be fighting a losing battle. The fire was simply too big, and there just weren't enough of them.

At one point, during the long night, Hermione found herself working nearly shoulder to shoulder with Professor Snape. The whole time, the only thing he deigned to say to her was that "it figured she would be out of bed in time to save the day."

She ignored him though, and pressed on, her body simply too tired and sweaty to care a single jot about what he said, dripping sarcasm not withstanding.

Finally, after a solid hour of blazing heat and pungent smoke, Hermione forced herself to escape a few yards away from the fire and take a break, collapsing on the grass, and greedily breathing in the fresh oxygen. It was then that she heard something in the bushes. Something that sounded like a small animal crying for help. Hermione felt her heart squeeze in her chest.

She realized then that she had not seen any wildlife running from the forest in terror. The fire was close to the outskirts, so it was entirely possible that all the animals had run in the opposite direction. However, it appeared that one animal had not.

After only a split-second of indecision, Hermione leapt to her feet and rushed towards the sound, hoping she could reach the creature in time before it either suffocated from the smoke or was roasted alive by the still rapidly spreading flames.

Her nightgown snagged on branches and thorns as she pushed farther into the woods, following the pitiful cries. Whatever it was also seemed to be thrashing around a great deal, as though it had become tangled in the brush somehow. Maybe it was a rabbit, she thought, or a deer. The poor thing!

At last, Hermione saw the bushes moving wildly back and forth a few feet in front of her, and as she approached (warily of course, for threatened animals were always very dangerous), she whispered _lumos_, sending a shaft of bright light piercing through the smoke clouds that hung in the air.

There was a brief moment of silence in which Hermione felt that somehow, something had gone very, very wrong. And then, something erupted out of the bushes. It was a mass of teeth and claws and it gave out a roar that shook Hermione's very bones. All she saw was a pair of big, red, glowing eyes before a club-like paw snatched her feet out from under her and dragged her, face down and screaming for all she was worth, deep into the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

* * *

Whatever the monster was - it was too dark to tell- the thing brought Hermione directly back to its lair. A dark, moldy cave littered with animal bones and half-mutilated carcasses.

Hermione felt waves of terror crashing through her, shaking her limbs and paralyzing her thoughts. She made several wild attempts to lash out at her attacker with her wand, but all of the spells she managed to stammer out merely glanced off its thick hide without effect.

The instant the monster reached the mouth of its cave, it whipped around and snatched Hermione up in its front paws. She wrestled desperately with its enormous claws as it gnashed its teeth mere inches from her nose. Its grip was like iron, and she was already near exhaustion from fighting the fire. Finally, knowing that she had run out of ideas, Hermione did the only thing she could think of — she thrust her arm out and stabbed the point of her wand as hard as she could into the middle of one of the monster's enormous red eyes.

The thing howled in pain and dropped her about five feet to the ground, where one of her knees gave a terrible pop and then crumpled beneath her.

Sobbing with both pain and fear, Hermione scrambled out of the cave as fast she could on all fours, her left leg dragging uselessly behind her, her knee searing so sharply it felt as though she had been stabbed with a white-hot poker. Hermione screamed at the top of her lungs for help, but she knew it was futile. She was too far away for anyone to hear her. Only a faint glow of the forest fire could be seen on the horizon.

Just as she reached the outside of the cave, Hermione's nightgown caught on a rock and jarred her knee again, making her whole world spin and her stomach heave. She turned her head, wretched dryly, took a deep, shuddering breath, and then surged forward.

She heard a terrible sucking sound from behind her, and could only assume that it was the sound of the monster pulling her wand out of its eye socket.

Knowing she couldn't have more than a few second's head start on the monster, Hermione doubled her efforts and managed to make it at least twenty more feet before her attacker exploded out of the cave, its enormous, hulking animal form nearly blotting out the weak sunlight that was just beginning to peek through the canopy of the trees.

As the thing crashed towards her, bellowing angrily, its one remaining eye glowing ominously, Hermione knew that she was done for. This was it. After all she had faced in the past, all her narrow brushes with death at the hands of Voldemort and his followers, this was how her life was going to end. Bleeding, helpless, terrified, and totally alone.

Then, just as the monster closed the distance between them and leapt into the air in an arc that would most definitely lead it teeth first into Hermione's middle, a green light erupted from the woods behind her and blasted directly into the monster's face, throwing it backwards against an enormous pine tree with a sickening crack.

The thing fell into a heap on the ground and then, thankfully, was still.

Hermione heard the sound of quick, pattering footsteps on the grass. A wand light fell upon her face. She blinked away the glare and found herself looking up into the dark, blazing eyes of her savior — Severus Snape.

"Granger, what the bloody hell are you doing," he demanded roughly. "Are you utterly _deranged_."

It took Hermione a minute before she could produce anything out of her mouth that sounded remotely like words. "My — my knee," she gasped, clutching at her leg, "it s-sort of — I heard a pop — And how did you — I didn't — I was so scared — I thought I was going to—"

"Yes, yes, alright, calm down," Snape growled testily. "You're knee was it? Hold still."

Snape stooped to the ground next to Hermione and she felt the tip of his wand against her still steadily throbbing knee. There was a small, blue-purple glow and then the pain slowly receded, her leg soon feeling healthy and whole again.

Snape helped her shakily to her feet.

Even though she knew her body was physically fine, and that she was safe at last, Hermione could not seem to pull a proper breath. Her whole body felt as though it was having a nervous breakdown, and she was shaking uncontrollably, aftershocks, perhaps, of the earthquakes of fear that had so recently wracked her body.

"Is something else wrong?" Snape said a bit testily. "I thought you said it was your knee. Why are you still—"

"I just, I just can't believe I'm alive!"

Snape snorted. "If I had been a moment later, Miss Granger, that might not have been the case."

Perhaps it was a side effect from her near-death experience, or perhaps she _was _a bit deranged, but whatever the reason, Hermione threw her arms around Snape's neck and sobbed into his shoulder, "I know, I know! Oh thank you, Professor, thank you, thank you!"

Snape stiffened beneath her, his arms going ramrod straight at his sides, and his breath catching in his throat. Surprisingly, he did not pull away. He let her go on for a minute, possibly aware that any move he made to disentangle himself might tip her completely over the edge and she would never see anything but the insides of St. Mungo's for the rest of her life. (And while that thought did not sound all together displeasing to Severus, he thought it wise to at least make an attempt to bring his student back to Hogwarts in more or less one piece).

As the sun continued to shed increasing increments of its light through the trees, Snape squinted against the early morning rays and decided that it was time to go. "Alright, Miss Granger," he said at last, firmly, but not altogether unkindly. "If you could... detach yourself. We need to leave this forest before something else, something worse, shows up."

Suddenly aware of exactly who her arms were currently clinging to, Hermione hurriedly pulled away. "Yes, I'm sorry, terribly sorry, I don't know what came over me, please forgive — Wait — What do you mean something worse?"

Snape never had the chance to answer, because just at that moment there came a crackle of branches, a deep throaty chuckle, and then out of the woods stepped a fully robed, fully masked, Death Eater.

Hermione nearly collapsed all over again.

"Excellent, Severus," said the new arrival, his voice tinged with an accent that Hermione thought sounded vaguely familiar. "Unexpected, but I dare say well met. I thought my fire a mere distraction, a test of power. I had no idea it might smoke out something useful. A Hogwarts Mudblood, all alone, with no one to hear her screams. Well done, Severus, good catch." Then, with another guttural laugh, the man took off his mask to reveal himself as none other than the newly appointed Chairman of the Foreign Affairs committee, Turnus Frend.

Hermione glanced over to see that Snape had gone very, very still.

"Frend," Snape said quietly, a dangerous chill in his voice. "I find it... surprising that you have the nerve to face me."

Frend made a motion in the air as if to sweep his words away. "No hard feelings. You aren't one to be petty. You'll be amply rewarded, of course - and how did I _know_ you would react to such a potion?"

"_Poison_," Snape growled.

Frend rolled his ice-blue eyes. "All the same. We needed, our Master, Severus, _desired_ an antidote, and seeing as you appear to be standing before me in perfect health, I assume you were able to conjure one."

Snape remained silent.

Hermione barely dared to breathe.

Frend smiled a terrible, chilling smile. "I'll be expecting some of that shortly, if you don't mind. Actually, mind all you want, but I expect it."

"We'll see," Snape replied, his lip curling.

At last, Frend's gaze turned to Hermione, and she could feel her knees knocking together beneath her nightgown.

"_T__his _filthy creature," he purred. "What is your name. Granger isn't it? I recognize the hair. A friend of Potter's."

Frend began to walk towards Hermione, his body seeming to her almost as enormous as the monster that still lay in a bleeding, broken heap on the ground twenty feet away.

"Doesn't it surprise you, girl, to know that your beloved professor is one of our most devoted Death Eaters?"

_Shit_. She had forgotten she wasn't supposed to know that.

Quickly, Hermione tried to come up with a response that might cover her lack of surprise. "I've... had my suspicions," she said at last, giving Snape a dark look. "No, it does not surprise me."

Frend roared with laughter. "Well, Severus, it doesn't seem like you've made many friends at Hogwarts, does it?"

"Go crawl back into whatever hole in the ground you came from, Frend," Snape hissed. "I'll take care of the Mudblood myself. I caught her, she's mine."

Frend stopped laughing, though there was still a cruel smile spread across his wide face. "No, I think not. I wouldn't want _you_ to take credit for the results of my fire. We should bring her to our master together, don't you think?"

Hermione could not quite get her head around the gravity of what was happening, or what was about to happen.

Without warning, Frend pulled out his wand and pointed it directly at Hermione. With a sharp intake of breath, she turned and desperately tried to catch Snape's eye, hoping against hope that he was developing a plan—to get them out of there, to help her, save her, like she had saved him.

But he was not looking at her. In fact he did not appear to be looking at anything at all. He was simply staring off into the woods as though bored by the whole affair.

_Look at me!_ Hermione screamed in her head. _Look at me! Professor Snape, please look at me! Please tell me what to do! HELP ME! _How could he do this to her?

"_Stupify_!" yelled Frend.

Hermione turned around just in time to see a flash of red light before everything went black.


	10. To Tell Or Not To Tell

**Chapter Ten**

Hermione awoke knowing three things:

1. She was trapped in a room with two Death Eaters.

2. At least one of those Death Eaters had an extremely strong desire to hurt her.

3. For once in her life, she was actually sorry not to be in the hospital wing.

The next coherent thought that came to mind was, _I'm tied to a chair. How primitive._

Hermione cracked an eyelid and looked blearily around to see a room that was large, mostly empty, dimly lit, and made completely of stone. It gave her the immediate sense of being trapped in a sort of medieval dungeon or torture chamber. Which more or less confirmed that Snape was out of ideas.

Involuntarily, Hermione let out a small moan.

All talking (for there had been some incoherent muttering going on somewhere outside her line of vision) stopped immediately, and Hermione warily looked up to see that she now had Frend's undivided attention.

"Awake," he grunted, shaking his head. "Already. Tenacious little insect, is she?" He appraised Hermione through narrowed eyes. "You're wondering, I suppose, why you're not dead."

Well. Now she certainly was.

"In truth, I had every intention of killing you hours ago, but…"

Hermione blinked hard against her swimming vision as Frend began circling her chair. She could just barely see the dark form of Snape leaning against the far wall, his face and torso nearly swallowed in shadow.

"But," continued Frend, and he shot a look at Snape over his shoulder, "when I informed the Dark Lord of your capture, he expressed the desire to kill you himself. A very great honor, the grand sort of death your kind do not deserve, though I'm fairly certain you won't think so." He muttered briefly to Snape, "Mudbloods have an inane sense of logic, not difficult to predict. In any case, the Dark Lord is busy at the moment. Has a lot on his plate, as you may imagine. So we must wait before he is able to grace us with his presence."

Hermione could almost hear the chilling smile spread across his face.

"In the meantime... What do you think, Severus? You never answered my question. I think we should have a little fun."

Hermione looked over again at Snape, desperately hoping that he had managed to figure something out by now. Once again, he avoided her gaze, turning instead to face his fellow Death Eater.

"I've told you, the Dark Lord would not like it if you ruined the captive before he arrived, Frend," Snape drawled in a very bored tone.

Frend finished his circle around Hermione's chair and then squatted down to look her full in the face, his ice blue eyes glinting sharply.

Hermione resisted the strong urge to spit.

"Don't patronize me, Snape. I'm not going to ruin her. I just want to give her a... taste of what's coming."

Then Frend reached out to stroke a long, thick finger down Hermione's cheek.

This time, Hermione could not control herself, and she lashed out with her teeth, narrowly missing the end of Frend's finger. Instantly he backhanded her hard across the face. Pain exploded beneath Hermione's left eye socket.

"Spitting fire, now _that's _a surprise," Frend laughed, slowly pulling out his wand. "But I'll put you in your place, little devil. _Crucio_!"

Hermione screamed and jerked around in her chair so violently that she nearly tipped it over. She could not believe how much this hurt: Her torn knee, the burns on her arms, the backhand across her cheek — all that pain seemed to return one hundred-fold, along with what felt like every other injury she had ever received in her life. Her insides twisted painfully, tighter and tighter. She wanted desperately to curl up into a ball, to somehow assuage the riveting pain that coursed through her body, but because of the way she was tied, she was unable to do anything more than strain against her bindings. Tears streamed down her face, and for one wild moment Hermione thought there was someone in the room yelling, "STOP! PLEASE STOP!" until she realized that it was her own voice.

"That's enough, Frend," Snape hissed as he strode towards them, nostrils flaring.

Hermione shook her head groggily as the spell ended. Her every nerve felt aflame, as though a layer of hot coals had somehow been embedded beneath her skin.

Frend narrowed his eyes. "You seem strangely protective of your student, Professor. As I've said, you can't keep her to yourself. Or is there something else you wish to share? Not having second thoughts, are you?"

"Don't be absurd," Snape snorted.

"So, maybe you'd like to have a go?"

Hermione held her breath. Snape barely even paused to think.

"Once again, I do not think the Dark Lord would be very pleased if she was—"

Frend made a loud noise of exasperation. "If you're that worried, then go on and leave. Stand outside. I would hate to think you'd gone soft, Severus, _that's _something the Dark Lord would not be very pleased about."

"I have not gone soft," Snape growled.

Frend gave Snape a dismissive wave with one of his massive hands. "Go ahead and leave," he said. "Before I tell our master how reluctant you are to punish a very deserving creature."

Hermione tried to blink the sweat and tears out of her eyes as she watched Snape stand there, still as a statue, his face as blank as stone. Behind that blank mask, however, Hermione knew there were a thousand things going through his mind.

If Snape made any attempt to save her, then his cover, his entire identity, would be blown, and not only would this endanger his life, but would also rob the Order of their most precious source of information. Then again, surely even Snape would struggle with the thought of leaving one of his own students alone in a room with a sadistic Death Eater (chatter-box know-it-all though she was).

Hermione hoped fervently he thought of something fast.

"Do not damage her," Snape said at last and started towards the door.

Hermione's heart sank.

"_Crucio_!" Frend screamed again, cackling wildly as Hermione erupted into renewed shrieks of pain.

Hermione watched Snape's retreating back through a vision blurred by tears as she thrashed about, pulling uselessly at her ropes. She knew that Snape had made the right decision, but she could not ignore the feeling of betrayal that clawed at her wildly from within her chest.

As Snape reached the door, he stopped, and slowly turned around.

For the first time, their eyes met. Hermione could see the agony on his face as plain as day. Her sobs came back double-fold, her heart feeling just about ready to explode. She screamed and screamed, but she did not ask for his help. She did not reveal his identity. She knew how important he was to the Order, and Merlin be damned if she was going to be the one who gave him away.

In the span of no more than a few seconds, Hermione watched as Snape made several movements to go. And every time, he turned back, clearly battling with himself, his hands clenched in quivering fists at his sides. Finally, he looked up at the ceiling, seeming to offer a quick prayer to some unknown entity, and then, with a yell, he hurled himself at Frend, wrestling the wand from his unsuspecting hand.

Hermione slumped against her bindings as the spell finally ended, her vision seeming to come and go as little dots of light danced around in front of her eyes.

Meanwhile, Snape and Frend rolled back and forth in a frantic battle on the floor, throwing punches and bashing each other's heads against the stone. When looking at the two men side by side, it would be almost laughable to imagine them pitted against each other in a physical battle. Snape was so thin and lanky, while Frend was all muscle, hulking, broad-shouldered, with fists like bowling balls. But Snape had not become the man that he was without learning his fair share of tricks, and though he was admittedly rather scrawny, judging by the way he was able to wrestle a man twice his weight to the ground, he was strong as an ox.

Frend, his face screwed up with a mixture of anger and shocked betrayal, threw blow after blow against Snape's back and the side of his face with one hand, while using the other to keep his opponent from drawing his wand.

Hermione did not know what to feel.

On one hand, she was thrilled that Snape had come to her rescue (she had not been looking forward to torture and most likely eventual death). On the other hand, she had worked so hard not to give Snape up, and here he was doing it anyway.

_What have we blundered into? If only I'd stayed out of the forest, damn it all!_

Frend gave Snape a particularly violent elbow to the face, and as Snape flew backwards, his hand clutched over his nose, Frend snatched back his wand. Now free of the massive man's grip, Snape's own wand was out in a flash. Then commenced the most spectacular battle between two wizards that Hermione had ever witnessed (though she was hardly in any condition to take notes). Spells flew everywhere: Jinxes, hexes, counter-jinxes, counter-hexes, flashes of red, blue, violet — and most horrifying of all — green light, bounced wildly about the room.

Hermione tried to make herself as small as she possibly could, feeling shockwaves of terror every time that a blaze of some unknown spell came within inches of her defenseless body.

She yelped as something rebounded off the back wall and crashed into the side of her chair, slamming her to the ground, wrenching her shoulder and bashing her elbow so hard against stone that she felt it in her teeth. _I'm done for_, she thought, _all that and I'm going to die anyway! And by accident too, how stupid! How utterly and completely stupid! _Another wayward spell sizzled mere centimeters from Hermione's upturned knees and the tail end of it burned a hole through her night gown, singing her skin, making her yelp again with pain. Perhaps it was because of this pain that it took several moments for Hermione to realize that the spell had also managed to burn through a large portion of the ropes confining her legs. With a strong kick and a few twists, they fell away.

Though her arms were still bound tightly, she felt a renewed surge of strength now that she was partially free. Hermione looked over to see that Frend's back was turned towards her. He was steadily advancing on Snape, pushing him farther and farther into a corner, his face still contorted with rage and intense concentration.

So, knowing that this was probably the only chance she was ever going to get (and that if she didn't do something soon, this battle might very well last until Voldemort himself showed up), Hermione gathered together all the strength she had left, rocked herself to her feet, stood, took a running start, and then threw herself chair first as hard as she could at Frend's back.

She fell a little short, but there was a satisfying snap as the wooden chair connected with one of Frend's legs and, with a sound like a wounded boar, he crumpled to the ground.

Snape was on him in an instant, his wand raised. "_Avada Ke_–"

Before he could finish the spell, there was a sharp _pop_, and Turnus disappeared, leaving Snape and Hermione alone in the room, the echoes of Snape's almost-murder still ringing in the air.

There was a short silence then, filled only with Snape's heavy breathing and Hermione's sharp, pained gasps.

Hermione was first to break the silence. "Why did you—?"

"You saved my life, Granger. Now I have saved yours. Twice. We're even. I'm done with you."

There was another short pause, as though neither party could fully grasp the reality of their situation. A moment later, Snape finally seemed to click into gear.

"We need to get out of here," he said quickly, getting to his feet and undoing Hermione's remaining ropes with a flick of his wand. There was a steady stream of blood still flowing from his nose and a nasty looking lump had risen just above his right eyebrow. He was sweating and panting heavily, but otherwise seemed to be alright. "Can you stand?" he asked gruffly.

Hermione disentangled herself from the ropes and shakily tried to get to her feet. She could not. As the shock and adrenaline wore off, her battered legs were unable to bear her weight. She slid back down to the stone floor.

"I would rather not carry you, Granger," Snape said instantly, his expression looking decidedly fed-up.

"We could use Side-Along App–"

"You can't here."

"But Frend just–"

"I said _you _can't Apparate here. Unless you've secretly joined the Death Eaters and are hiding a Dark Mark somewhere beneath that frilly sleeve of yours, the only way you can leave is through the front door."

Hermione nodded numbly, her body still trembling all over. It took almost all of her concentration just to keep from throwing up. "Where exactly are we?" she asked as she made several more attempts to get to her feet and failed miserably each time.

Snape didn't answer, sighing noisily. "Is that the best you can do? We don't have time for this. If you can't walk, then I am forced to carry you." He paused slightly, as if trying to see their situation twenty steps ahead. "This will not be easy, Granger... I mean, you're not exactly a pixie, are you? If you weren't as heavy perhaps we would stand a better chance, but—"

Ignoring the blatant offense, Hermione's mind flashed with an idea. "Wait," she said. "If I… Then you could definitely… Um… Well, you see, there's something, something I should probably tell you. Or should have told you. Or whatever… Um… I… I guess I could just show you? Not sure I can do it in this condition. Oh well, here it goes…" Hermione closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths, doing her best to clear her mind and let her incredibly tense and pain-riddled body relax.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Granger, what the blazes do you think you're—"

Hermione had a look of pained concentration on her face for a brief moment, and then, quite suddenly, right where she had just been sitting, instead now sat a very furry, very tired, but unmistakably real, brown-haired rabbit. Its long ears drooped almost to the floor and its big honey eyes were dulled with pain and exhaustion. Even so, there was no question in Snape's mind what had just happened.

His jaw went slack with surprise.

Hermione Granger was an Animagus.

An _unregistered _Animagus.

_Well_, he thought, _that certainly makes her easier to carry._

Snape shook his head and willed himself to get a grip. No time. He fixed on a heavy scowl and reached out for her. "The teeth are uncanny, Granger," he drawled.

Hermione snapped at his fingers as if to say, "Uncanny, but useful, thank you very much."

Snape pulled back with a hiss. "Watch it, Granger."

She growled angrily in return and Snape made a loud noise of disgust. "We don't have time for stubbornness, foolish girl. If you want to escape with your life, climb onto my shoulder. I need both of my hands."

Hesitantly, Hermione started towards him. Halfway there her stuttered hop became a very slow and stuttered walk. Even in animal form, her legs felt ready to collapse beneath her. Finally, she reached him and fell into the palm of his hand, her whole body trembling from ears to cottontail. Her eyes fell closed and she wheezed softly every time she pulled in a breath. Then she felt Snape's hands pick her up in a surprisingly tender grip, and when she opened her eyes again, she found herself staring directly into his own coal-black gaze.

"I'm aware that you're tired," he said sternly. "And I know it hurts, Granger, believe me, I _know_ it hurts. But you need to pull yourself together, dammit, _immediately_." He sneered. "Just dig into that secret stash of Gryffindor resolve I know you've got buried away somewhere in anticipation of such occasions."

If Hermione had had the strength to be astonished that Snape had just given her an impromptu pep talk, she would have expressed it. Instead, she simply nodded, and desperately tried to find that buried resolve, as Snape set her gently onto his shoulder.

"Hold tight," he demanded sharply. "I can't keep steadying you or I'll get us both killed."

With two taps of his wand, he put a disillusionment charm on both of them, and Hermione shivered as the spell slowly trickled down her body. Then, before she barely even had time to adjust herself against his neck, Snape walked forward, very quietly opened the door, and stepped out into a dark, stone hallway.

* * *

The only things that Hermione managed to notice from her vantage point atop Snape's shoulder were the torches on the wall in place of windows, and that every door they passed seemed to be barred shut from the outside (which was not, as she was concerned, a very good sign).

As they made their way through the twisting corridor, Snape held his hands out in front of him, as if searching for something in the air.

Hermione watched, mesmerized, as he eventually came to halt, and to all appearances, seemed to be leaning against an invisible wall. She felt his vocal chords vibrate against her furry cheek as he began to mutter an incantation. Even as close to him as she was, he whispered so softly that she couldn't make out a single word.

His palms glowed briefly, and then, with one more flick of his wand, Snape walked forward again, completely unhindered.

They came upon a few more barriers just like that one, and each time, Snape seemed to know exactly when to put out his hands.

On one blindingly terrifying occasion, they came upon a small group of Death Eaters (apparently "on guard"), laughing as they tortured a poor, helpless bat that had somehow been trapped inside. They each took turns shooting pockets of air at it out of their wands, and watched as the creature tumbled and fluttered wildly around in the air, crashing into the walls and ceiling, emitting sad, shrill noises over their cruel jests.

Hermione squeaked angrily, but Snape reached back and covered her face with his hand.

"Quiet," he hissed in an almost imperceptible whisper.

She nodded, and they moved on unnoticed.

Hermione finally became so exhausted that it was all she could do just to keep from falling off Snape's shoulder entirely. Her eyes were closed and even her hearing seemed to fade in and out over the rest of the journey.

At last, Snape gave Hermione a nudge and she opened her eyes to see that they had reached a staircase leading up to a door in the ceiling. It was then that she realized they had been underground the entire time.

"A church!" Hermione opened her mouth to say as they came out of the floor of a confessional and into the chapel. All that escaped her mouth was another squeak.

Snape seemed to understand. "The Dark Lord loves the touch of irony," he said softly.

A yellow-orange light filtered through the stained-glass windows of the chapel as more than a few Muggles sat in scattered clumps on the benches, their heads bowed in worship. Whispered prayers echoed softly off the high-arching ceiling and around the large marble pillars, and though she was not a devoutly religious person herself, Hermione found the sound very soothing in its own way.

Snape hugged the walls as he slowly made his way towards the door, keeping to the shadows whenever possible.

When at last they reached the doors, they had to wait a few minutes for the next person to enter so that they could slip out unnoticed, but then they were finally in the open air again! Free! Alive!

Hermione had never been so happy to be in the cold, biting though it was.

As Snape made his way down the stairs and turned into a shaded alley, Hermione could not help noticing that the yellow-orange light was that of sunset, not sunrise. They had been down there for an entire day! With this realization, Hermione immediately felt herself overcome by a heavy wave of exhaustion and she unintentionally began to slip forward. She had just enough sense to pour her remaining strength into turning back into her human self, before she fainted dead away in Snape's arms.

Hopefully, the next time she woke, it would be in slightly friendlier surroundings.**  
**


	11. Its All Uphill From Here

**Chapter Eleven**

"Wake up, Granger. _Wake up_. I don't care how tired you think you are, I need for you to walk. Now."

Hermione's eyelids fluttered and she made a small groan in the back of her throat. It was dark, she was cold, and that terribly rude voice did not sound anything like Madam Pomfrey. Maybe if she ignored it, the voice would go away…

Hermione gasped, her eyes snapping open as a strong pair of hands suddenly grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her sharply from side to side. When the shaking stopped, she once again found herself staring into a pair of fierce black eyes, ones which each held a genuine spark of terror that seemed to be dancing just beneath the surface.

"Wh-where are we?" Hermione rasped, looking warily around. The whole left side of her face felt as though it had recently been pummeled by an iron sledgehammer.

At first, Hermione thought they were still sitting in the same alley in which she had fainted, the one just outside the church. Another cursory glance, however, revealed an unfamiliar pair of dustbins to the left and a flickering neon sign high above Snape's head that read, "THE SLEEPY INN" in enormous block letters. The moon hung in a dull pool of yellow light just above the giant 'S' and its advanced arc proved to Hermione that she must have been unconscious for at least a few hours.

Snape cleared his throat and sat back on his heels, the moonlight making his skin glow so white that he almost seemed to be carved from ivory.

"As you have undoubtedly noticed," he began quietly, yet still with that infuriatingly nonchalant air he always seemed to retain when in such dire situations, "we are currently sitting outside a Muggle inn." His lip twitched as though he were barely restraining a sneer. "We will stay the night here. It is imperative that we remain hidden over the next few days, while I... attempt to negotiate our situation."

Hermione's eyelids began to droop again. She was so _tired_, and she was having trouble concentrating on what Snape was saying. Something about the inn…

"I assume, by now," he continued, "Frend will have informed the Dark Lord of my treachery and every Death Eater on this side of the equator will be madly searching for the two of us, most likely with orders to capture, but possibly to kill, on sight." His voice dropped to an even lower octave, and he gave Hermione a significant look. "And the last thing I mean to do is risk leading those Death Eaters back to Hogwarts. They'll be crawling all over Hogsmeade, and the moment we—"

Hermione was barely hanging onto consciousness. "Back to Hogwarts," she muttered. "Yes... back to Hogwarts... Gotta see... Madam Pomfrey... Head hurts…"

She jumped as Snape reached out and grabbed her jaw firmly between his fingers.

"Don't you understand?" he hissed, giving her a short, firm shake. "_We cannot go back to Hogwarts!_"

It took a moment for this concept to penetrate the haze of her muddled thoughts, and then the full realization of what had happened finally seemed to hit.

Hermione realized that not only could she not go back to Hogwarts, but she also could not go home, or see her parents, or even go out in public without risk of discovery. Snape had betrayed Voldemort—deeply and willingly, and now, after all these years of secrecy and clever mind games, Voldemort knew about it. An entire fleet of Death Eaters was out there looking for both of them. Until Voldemort was destroyed, or his powers were somehow taken away, both she and Snape were presumably prime targets.

Hermione's eyes began to sting and her heart clenched painfully in her chest. How did everything become such a mess?

"Granger?"

Snape's fingers were still wrapped firmly around Hermione's jaw, and she nodded dumbly to show him that she understood.

"We need to go inside now," he said, finally releasing her as he glanced quickly around to make sure that no one was watching. "And the less attention we draw to ourselves, the better. Which is why I need you to walk. Impossible feat though it may seem in your _pathetic _state, I'm not going to ask you again. Me carrying you, Animagus or not, is not an option anymore. Now, get up."

With trembling limbs, a heavy heart, and the sparks of hatred beginning to fester in her gut for this rough, unfeeling man who ordered her about so ungraciously, Hermione slowly pulled herself to her feet.

Sure, the world seemed to be crashing down around them, and sure, Snape had just forced himself to sacrifice his entire identity to save someone who, to all appearances, he seemed to absolutely despise.

But, honestly…

He didn't have to be so snippy about it.

* * *

Hermione leaned heavily against the peeling wallpaper in a shadowed corner of the lobby as Snape made his way to the check-in desk. She wondered why he had gone to all that trouble to make her walk and then just stuck her unceremoniously in a corner. Then she looked down at her clothes and realized what a fright she must be: Her hair all matted, her various burns and shaking limbs, her nightgown smudged with dirt (not to mention singed right through at the knees). Yes, good call, Snape. The less people who saw her, the better.

Hermione looked up, aghast, as Snape finished discussing something with the desk clerk, reached into his pocket, pulled out a small roll of Muggle money, and proceeded to handle the transaction as though he'd never seen a Galleon in his life.

_Guess a spy's got to be prepared for anything_, she thought numbly. Her entire body was steadily throbbing now, all of her individual pains seeming to have molded into one great, big, singular pain.

"This way — quickly," Snape snapped quietly as he approached and grabbed her elbow, pulling her down a side hall towards the lifts.

The desk clerk waved jovially to Hermione as they passed, then froze when he saw her in the light. No doubt he wondered why Hermione looked as though she had just been put through the beating of her life, and why she could barely walk without the support of Snape's harsh, possessive grip.

The desk clerk obviously had no desire to get mixed up in whatever it was that was going on, because he instantly turned back to staring at the blank surface of his desk, pretending as though he had seen nothing out of the ordinary at all.

Hermione knew that the stairs would probably have been the safest and most discreet way to travel, however, there was no way she was going to make it up six flights in her condition, and Snape was assuredly well aware of that.

Thankfully, the lift was empty when it arrived, and as the shiny, golden doors slid shut and the floor shuddered beneath their feet, Snape continued to remain silent—never making any move to console her, nor to tell her what the plan was, nor even to ask her how she was feeling. He simply stood there, still and stoic, his hands clenched at his sides and a deep frown permanently etched on his face.

Hermione was in no mood to care. All she could think about was the hopeless, irreversible magnitude of a disaster she had blundered into, and how she would probably never see her family, or anyone else she cared about, for a very long time to come. She was stuck with a man who had always seemed to loathe her from the very core of his being, and now had an extremely good reason to support it. Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away. Her arms dangled uselessly at her sides as she spent all of her remaining concentration on just making sure that she remembered to breathe — steadily, in and out, over and over. _One breath at a time_, she told herself. One breath at a time.

Finally, after another long walk down the hallway, more than a few frustrated attempts at figuring out how to stick the key card into the slot, the little green light blinked at last as Snape swung the door open, leading Hermione inside. She stumbled the next few steps to the first bed she saw, and without a word or even another thought, Hermione collapsed onto the paisley comforter and instantly fell asleep.

* * *

Blood. There was so much blood everywhere. It was on her hands, on her face, in her hair. And there must have been a fire somewhere too, because the smoke was filling up her lungs, creating such a terrible pressure in her chest that she felt as though her whole torso was caving in on itself.

A pair of red, slanted eyes grew like a mirage in front of her until it completely filled her vision.

"You're dead, Mudblood," cackled a familiar, serpent-like voice.

Then she was blind, and all she could hear was the sound of a harsh, chilling, laughter as ice-cold fingers closed around her throat, squeezing tighter, and tighter, and tighter…

Hermione woke up screaming, flailing her arms around and knocking just about everything off her nightstand before a warm hand clamped over her mouth.

For a moment she forgot where she was and she clawed wildly at the arm that imprisoned her... before she realized that she recognized the voice hissing, "Shut up you idiot girl!" in her ear.

Hermione gulped and sat back against the headboard of her bed as Snape released her and pulled back, examining his arms where her nails had gouged long, red, angry marks on his skin.

"S-sorry," she stammered. "I had a nightmare."

Snape did not look at her. He stood and walked over to the door to check the peephole. "Yes. I noticed," he replied snidely. Then, seeming to think all was clear, he returned to his previous seat on the couch. "The Cruciatus can sometimes have that effect, and the most potent remedy would be a sedative potion." He scowled. "But, due to obvious circumstances, I do not have anything of the sort at my disposal."

"That's alright," Hermione said quietly. "I'm awake anyway."

Snape sighed—the first indication from him Hermione had seen so far of what must surely be a very deep weariness. "I suppose I should take a look at your face, now that you are in a _rare _state of consciousness and I am still able to use my wand."

"What do you mean?"

"_Rare_, Miss Granger, because it is, quite frankly, absurd the amount of times thus far, in my presence alone, you have dropped unexpectedly to the ground—as though some sort of narcoleptic chipmunk. I can only assume that this brief hiatus in which you are awake and speaking will in due course end abruptly with another inconveniently timed collapse, rendering you incapable of anything but lying lethargically on the ground, wasting oxygen... Incidentally, a state which I prefer in your case. That is, when we are not attempting to— "

"Excuse me, Professor, but that's not—"

Snape raised his eyebrows. "What then?" He glanced down at his wand. "Ah, yes, wand limitations—I presume, then, you are curious as to why I implied that I soon will be incapable of performing magic?" He did not wait for Hermione to respond before answering. "_Obviously_ the Ministry keeps tabs on all wand magic in Muggle-infested areas — which, most hideously, this inn most assuredly is. And there are _certain people _within the Ministry that have, shall I say, a rather suspicious preference for long sleeves, among other things." His eyes narrowed. "Needless to say, I do not want any of them knowing my whereabouts."

Hermione nodded hesitantly. "Oh... yes, I see that. But... er... what's wrong with my face?"

Snape made a loud noise of disgust. "Gryffindors and their self-importance," he muttered. "Why don't you get off your arse and take a look for yourself?"

Hermione ground her teeth in irritation, though otherwise did as she was told. She took a moment to stretch her painful muscles before slipping off the bed and making her way to a small wooden vanity across the room. Then she saw exactly what was wrong with her face: A very prominent black eye where Frend had backhanded her. It was dark and swollen and ghastly beyond belief.

"Yes, he got you pretty good, didn't he, Granger?" Snape commented as Hermione sat back down on the bed and allowed him to have a look. He prodded her cheek with his wand and grunted knowingly when Hermione winced. "Of course... that's nothing to a broken leg."

Hermione did a brief double-take. Did he... Was that _approval _she had heard in his voice? Hermione nearly smiled.

Well and so. The big mean professor could be impressed after all.

_Maybe, under everything, he isn't, really, all that bad_, she thought belatedly.

Snape performed a few more spells—healing some of Hermione's burns, wiping away a few cuts, and one particularly wonderful spell that eased the incredible tension in her muscles (aftereffect of the Cruciatus).

"That, I believe," Snape then said, after he had turned the wand on himself and partially mended his broken nose, "is the extent of the magic I can do without being noticed. I may perform small magic, but anything larger and we might have twenty Death Eaters knocking on our door. I think it goes without saying that you may not do any magic at all."

Hermione felt the familiar tendrils of fear beginning to creep into her chest. "Don't have my wand anyway," she said in a small voice. "I lost it in the fight with the, with that... monster thing."

"Yes, I have been meaning to ask you about that."

Hermione gave an exhausted sigh and shook her head. "I wish there was an explanation I could give you, Professor, but I am not quite sure what happened myself." She shrugged. "All I can remember is that there was a monster in the bushes. I thought it was a wounded animal, so when I went to help—"

Snape snorted.

Hermione ignored him. "It attacked me and dragged me off into the woods." She paused then and gave him a very skeptical look. "How did you know where I was anyway? How did you just _happen _to show up at the right moment?"

Snape's lips thinned. "Honestly, Granger—A fire in the Forbidden Forest. You don't think I knew immediately who had set it? I was looking for Frend. I suppose it was fortunate that I had such trouble tracking him down, otherwise I would have missed you entirely, and as such, you would no longer be around to pester me with your ridiculous questions. Did I say fortunate?"

Hermione thought about retorting, then held herself back. It didn't matter. If Snape wanted to be Snape, there was no stopping him. "In any case," she grumbled, "that's why I don't have my wand."

"Actually," Snape quipped, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a very familiar cherrywood wand.

Hermione stared at it for a few moments before finally realizing why it was so familiar. It was hers. She nearly threw her arms around Snape all over again (though she had enough sense this time to realize that he would probably not appreciate another over-enthusiastic hug). "Oh, thank you," she breathed instead, reaching out to tenderly pluck the object from his outstretched hand.

"You should take better care of your weapon, Miss Granger. The number one rule in wizarding survival. Weren't you ever taught to keep your wand with you at all times?"

Hermione ignored his condescending tone, cradling the wand lovingly in her hand and twirling it slowly to inspect it for possible damage. Finding none, she set it down on the bed beside her. "So, what are we supposed to do now?" she asked apprehensively.

Snape pursed his lips. "There is very little we _can _do at the moment. I have spoken briefly with the Headmaster, and he—"

Hermione nearly leapt to her feet. "You've seen Dumbledore? How? When?"

"That is none of your concern. Clearly, I have my ways of communicating with the Headmaster, and that is the extent of what you need to know."

Hermione most certainly did _not_ think that was all she needed to know, and she was getting very tired of him _deciding _what sort of things she should or should not be privy to. But she let the indignant comment die on her tongue once again. She was too tired to argue.

"At the moment," Snape continued, "Professor Dumbledore is searching for a safe place in which we might hide... indefinitely, Merlin help us."

Something suddenly occurred to Hermione, and her eyebrows furrowed. Snape had told her that Death Eaters were after both of them, yet... wouldn't they be most concerned with Snape? He was the traitor, here. Why was she in any more danger than she had been before? She was close to Harry; Frend had already known that.

"Excuse me, Professor," Hermione began assertively. "But why is it _us_ that Professor Dumbledore is trying to hide? I'm afraid I don't understand. Why can't _I _go back to Hogwarts?"

This was obviously the wrong thing to say (or at least the wrong way of saying it) because Snape's eyes instantly blazed with fury.

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger, does this _inconvenience _you in some way?" he spat. "Is this some sort of game that you are suddenly tired of playing? Believe me, if I had any choice in the matter, you would have quit my company a long time ago. Despite what you may think, spending my time playing babysitter to an over-curious Gryffindor is not very high on the list of things I like to do."

Feeling as though she had reached out for a flower and been suddenly and unexpectedly stung by its sharp nettles, Hermione fell silent.

"I need a toothbrush," she said eventually, and stood to leave.

Snape looked up at her with an incredulous expression. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded sharply.

Hermione reached the door and turned the handle, pulling it partially open. "I'm just going to pop downstairs to see if I can get a complimentary–"

"You're not going anywhere!" Snape raced over and slammed the door shut again.

Hermione growled angrily, "What! Why? I'm just–"

"Use your head, Granger," Snape snapped. "Don't you think it would be staggeringly odd if you were to go downstairs without a black eye, when you entered just hours before with a very noticeable one? To go downstairs looking like the hopeless mess that you do? It would arouse suspicion in an instant, and, if you had actually listened to me instead of asking inane questions like you always do, you would know that suspicion is exactly the thing we are trying to avoid."

Hermione was absolutely on her last nerve, and her anger and exhaustion finally caught up with her. "You do it then, since you're so clever," she seethed. "And get us something to eat while you're at it!"

Snape slammed his fist against the door. "DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND," he roared. "I can't go anywhere, I'm as useless as you - My cover has been corrupted and I'm a traitor now! Nothing to give, no function to serve, AND IT'S ALL YOUR RUDDY FAULT."

Those words hit Hermione like a physical blow, and she lashed back, feeling both hurt and betrayed all over again. "All my fault is it? _You're _the one who blew your cover, not me. I didn't ask to be saved."

"You most certainly did." Snape's voice shook dangerously. "You sat there and looked at me with that pathetic, helpless expression on your face, Granger, knowing that for once, your precious little Potter was not there to save you. You _did _ask for my help, don't you dare deny it."

Hermione crossed trembling arms over her chest. "How you interpreted my expression is not my problem, Professor, it's yours."

"IT'S BOTH OF OUR PROBLEM, YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE HUSSY!" Snape slammed his fist again. "I could have left you to die!"

"Why didn't you! Why didn't you leave me to die!" Hermione burst out, near to matching him in both fervor and volume.

"WOULD YOU HAVE PREFERRED IT!" he roared back.

"AT LEAST WE WOULDN'T BE HERE! WE WOULDN'T BE IN THIS MESS! YOU COULD STILL HELP THE ORDER! AND HARRY! AND... and..." She took a few sobbing breaths, and then her face finally crumpled into tears. "Damn it," she moaned. "We've lost our best shot at defeating Him, haven't we? And all because, because I was s-stupid enough to—and _you_ were—and now the Order—and Harry can never—Oh, _why_ did you help me? Why did you give your cover away? _I wasn't worth it_!"

Snape drew in a rattling breath, his face looking in that moment so terrifyingly angry that Hermione had the feeling he was a mere inch away from physically striking her.

"How dare you," he hissed. "How _dare _you say that my sacrifice was for nothing. I know your opinion of me is not very high, Granger, but know this — I would never be stupid enough, nor reckless enough, to throw away my entire identity on something that wasn't worth it."

Hermione tried to process those words as she stood there, her jaw slack, gaping foolishly back at him, completely unable to think of a response.

"A life debt is a life debt, and even I dare not defy that."

_A life debt? Yes, _Hermione thought. _It's the only thing that makes sense._

Snape's voice reached an impossibly frosty level. "Now, silence these hysterics, get _away_ from that door, and confine yourself to bed." His gaze was absolutely piercing. "You can go to sleep, stay awake, stare at the wall and twiddle your thumbs, I don't care what you do, just don't leave that bed. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

Hermione nodded numbly. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Severus drummed his fingers distractedly on the plush arm of the sofa, his eyes closed tightly against the stampede of thoughts and suppressed emotions that crowded his mind.

There were so many things to fear, to consider, to figure out, and he had no idea where to begin. What he really needed was a Pensieve, but that was hundreds of miles away, locked up in Dumbledore's office. Severus took a deep breath and tried to calm the swirling tornado of thoughts crashing through his brain. One by one, he carefully picked out a thought or a worry and examined it, looked at it from all angles, and then, just as carefully, put it back. This didn't exactly help his situation, but it made him feel better at least, more controlled and relaxed.

Granger lay curled up in a pathetic ball on the bed, her back to him, facing the wall. Her breathing was slow and regular and she hadn't moved an inch in the last hour. Severus knew she was not asleep though. No one that angry could fall asleep without a great deal of tossing and turning.

He probably should not have lost his temper, Severus realized yet again, as he watched her. The walls were undoubtedly thin, and he was very aware that the things they had said sounded sufficiently suspicious. But she had made him so _angry._ Somehow, she always seemed to know just which buttons to press to set him off.

Severus groaned quietly.

And now he was stuck with her for Merlin only knew how long.

At some point, he was going to have to tell Granger the real reason she was in so much danger, and he was not looking forward to that conversation.

Severus reached into his pocket and fingered a tiny, one-sided mirror. This had been his way of communicating with Dumbledore, as Hermione Granger had sat crumpled in an unconscious heap at his feet outside the church.

Dumbledore possessed the other one-sided mirror, and he and Snape had simply talked back and forth as though looking at each other through a miniature window. Of course, not just anyone could activate the mirror, it took a skilled Legilimens (which, quite fortunately, both he and Dumbledore happened to be).

In any case, Snape had had every intention of disposing of the girl as promptly as he could, so that he could then scamper off to hole up in some convenient hide-away for an indefinite amount of time. However, to Snape's dumbfounded surprise, Dumbledore had refused to allow the girl to come back to Hogwarts. He had said that since Snape had given up his identity to save Granger, it was entirely possible that Voldemort and his followers (Frend in particular) would assume that Snape had, of all the ludicrous things in the world, developed a "soft spot" for the girl, and would attempt to "use her against him." Even Dumbledore seemed convinced that there was more behind Severus's sacrifice than his simple duty to her as her professor.

What the bloody hell did that mean? And even if, for the tiniest moment, hypothetically, it were assumed that this was the conclusion Frend reached, how would that change anything? Granger meant a hell of a lot more to Potter than she ever would to Severus; wasn't she therefore _always _in danger of being used?

Maybe it was the romantic implication. Maybe that made a difference. But who in their right mind would ever think such a thing could exist between him and... Granger, of all people.

Of course, Frend _wasn't _in his right mind, was he? None of them were.

And logic would suggest that it would have had to be a strong incentive, a strong bond, a strong desire to save and protect, in order for someone like Snape to destroy all that he had built over the past sixteen years.

"That's what it looks like, Severus," Dumbledore had said. "I know it pains you to hear it, and I know you want to resist the idea with every fiber of your being, but that's what it looks like. I'm sorry."

Severus buried his face in his hands.

Dumbledore was right. It certainly did look that way.

* * *

Hermione was wakened yet again by another rude shake.

"Get up, Granger. We need to move on."

Hermione sat up and rubbed her eyes tiredly. She had been having another nightmare. Thankfully, the visions had not seemed quite as vivid as before.

"Where—where are we going?" she said through an enormous yawn.

"The Headmaster has found us a place to stay for a few weeks, months, perhaps, if we're lucky. It's unplottable so we can't Apparate there. We will have to travel disguised as Muggles, which means you'll need to wear these, and we'll need to do something with that hair of yours. Probably cut the whole lot off and be done with it."

Hermione shook her head groggily and blinked several times as Snape placed a short-sleeved shirt and a ratty pair of jeans next to her on the bed. She picked them up gingerly and looked over to discover that Snape had already adorned his own Muggle attire: A long-sleeved oxford (black, of course) and pair of dark blue jeans.

"Where did you get these?" she asked hesitantly when he did not immediately explain.

"There were several suitcases in the hall. One of them seemed to belong to a girl your size, so those should fit. Take a _quick _shower and put them on. We have a long way to travel and very little time in which to do so."

"You—you _stole _these?" Hermione sputtered in disbelief.

Snape rolled his eyes dramatically. "Spare me your saintly semantics, Granger. Would you have rather we popped down to Harrods so you could try on everything in the store? This was the safest way to do things, and you're lucky I found something relatively your size. I'm not going to tell you again. Get dressed."

With her eyes still rather wide and her mouth still rather slack, Hermione turned and went to lock herself in the bathroom. She nearly screamed when she saw herself in the mirror. Snape was right, something needed to be done about her appearance, without doubt, or they wouldn't make it a single block without being noticed—possibly arrested.

Hermione turned the handles in the shower and tried to process all the information she had just received in the past few minutes.

Dumbledore had found them some place to stay. For how long? Weeks? Months? It was far away, but they couldn't Apparate. They were going to have to "travel the Muggle way" and Snape was clearly not thrilled about it. He had also said something about a disguise, and…

Hermione suddenly froze, her breath catching in her throat as she paid no attention to her hands still poised beneath the now scalding hot water.

And _what_ did Snape say he was going to do to her hair?**  
**


	12. Planes, Trains and Brooms?

**Chapter Twelve**

Even an hour-long soak in the warm, perfumed waters of the Prefects' bathroom had never felt so good. Hermione stood with her chin resting against her chest as she let the delicious hot stream pound against her back. One by one, her aching muscles finally, finally released the very last of whatever tension had been left over after Snape's spell, and she watched through heavy lidded eyes as the remains of dirt and blood ran down her legs, swirling away into the drain. She was very nearly in a coma when there came a loud pounding on the bathroom door.

"Surely even _you're _clean by now, Granger," Snape's voice called thickly from the other side. "Get moving."

Hermione reacted instantly as though a switch had been turned on the back of her head. She jumped out of the shower, dried herself furiously with a towel and threw on the ratty jeans and t-shirt. Subsequently, it was then she discovered that the clothes Snape had secured for her were so big that they nearly swallowed her. In fact, the pants were so outsized that she actually had to hold them up with her hands to keep them from falling right back down to her ankles. Snape had said that the girl he saw was "about" her size.

Great, so Snape thought she was a whale. Perfect.

"I need a belt," Hermione snapped irritably as she entered the room.

"No, you don't," Snape replied without looking up from the pile of wizard and Muggle money that he was sorting on the bed.

Hermione made a loud noise of indignation. "You're joking, right?"

Snape looked up then, his jaw twitching at the sight of her: Hair still wet and dripping from the shower, the collar of her shirt nearly slipping over her shoulder, and the enormous handful of fabric she was forced to hold in order to keep the pants on her body. After a slight pause, he shook his head in defeat. "Alright," he grumbled, standing up and fumbling with his own belt buckle.

Hermione felt as though her stomach had just done a quick series of summersaults as she watched Snape free the strangely tricky clasp and slide the belt from around his waist in one slow, fluid, perfect motion. He held it out to her and Hermione paused for a moment before plucking it swiftly from his grasp, her heart thumping in her chest.

_Honestly,_ she mentally berated herself. _Get a grip._

Snape went back to sorting money as Hermione hesitantly slipped the belt through the loops in her own jeans. She tried to ignore the fact that this very accessory had just been wrapped around Snape's body, and shuffled back to the bathroom to dry her hair.

"Come back here, Granger," Snape called an instant later, before Hermione had barely even had time to touch the towel to her head.

She peeked around the doorframe. "Yes?"

Snape walked over and shoved a pair of metal scissors in her hands. "Here," he said.

Hermione stared back at him questioningly. "Well?" she said after a slight pause. "What do you want me to do with these?"

"I want you to cut your hair, as short as you can. The more drastic the better."

"WHAT?"

"Please, Granger, refrain from spewing your feminine woes of vanity. It's just hair. I even hear tell that it grows back."

Hermione seethed at his condescending tone. _You should talk_, she thought bitterly, and it took every inch of self-restraint she had to keep from slamming the door in his smug face. Instead, she turned to stare at herself determinedly in the mirror.

She supposed she was being a bit stupid. Snape was right, after all. It was just hair. And what was a little haircut when faced with possible torture and death? Hermione ran a hand through the long mass of damp curls on her head and pursed her lips. Even though she often complained about how unmanageable her hair was, she couldn't help but feel a certain attachment to it. She had always felt that it made her sort of... special, in a way.

With a sigh, Hermione grabbed a big handful and slid it between the sharp edges of the scissors. Special. That was exactly the reason why she needed to get rid of it.

Snip by snip, Hermione sheared away her hair until it was nothing more than a curly bob that barely concealed her ears. Her lip trembled involuntarily when she looked in the mirror and suddenly realized that it was all gone.

"Are you finished?" came Snape's irritable call from the other room.

"I-I guess so," Hermione replied in a barely suppressed wail. She emerged from the bathroom more self-conscious than she'd ever felt in her life.

Snape was standing with his wand out and at the ready, and Hermione gave him a wary look.

"That didn't help much, did it?" he growled.

Hermione was aghast. "What do you mean it didn't help? I cut it short just like you asked, and to be quite honest, I-"

Snape studied her with narrowed eyes, motioning with his finger for her to make a little turn.

For once, Hermione did not obey. "Look," she snapped. "I did what you said, I cut it all off, now can't we just leave it at that?"

"No."

Hermione threw up her hands. "Fine then, I give up! What do you want me to do?"

"For a start," Snape barked, "I would advise you _not_ to take that tone with me again. In case you haven't noticed, Granger, we are both in extreme danger. And, seeing as I am your superior in all facets of existence imaginable, I will be making the decisions every step of the way. You will do as I say without question, _any _question, is that perfectly understood?"

Hermione glowered. And did not respond.

Snape merely raised his eyebrows.

* * *

Hermione shrieked.

"BLOND? You turned my hair BLOND?"

"It would appear so."

"I understand you cutting it, even straightening it, but this is _cruel!_"

"Keep your voice down, Granger," Snape hissed, slithering over to take another look out the peephole. "For pity's sake, I'll turn it back when we arrive at our destination, if it means that much to you, don't throw a bloody fit."

Hermione's mouth was still gaping open as she stared at her now thoroughly unrecognizable hair, when Snape once again shoved a pair of scissors in her hand.

"I think it's short enough!" she snapped, giving over to her hissy-fit impulse and throwing the scissors back on the dresser in a huff.

Without missing a beat, Snape swiped them up and pressed them back into her hands. "I don't want you to cut _your_ hair, you petulant child, I want you to cut _mine_."

Hermione felt the color drain from her cheeks. "Seriously?"

"Look at my face," Snape deadpanned.

His face looked pretty serious.

Then, without waiting for her reply, Snape pulled out a chair and sat down expectantly. "Get on with it."

His tone was so nasty that Hermione thought very hard about telling him to cut his own damn hair and then promptly locking herself in the bathroom again. But she couldn't help being curious as to how this was all going to play out.

She cleared her throat. "How do you want it? Medium? Short?"

"I could care less, Granger, just shut up and _do something_, for Merlin's sake."

_Short it is then_, she thought snidely. Hermione approached the chair and positioned herself directly behind Snape, frowning as she tried in vain to make her body stop trembling. _Must still be an aftereffect of the Cruciatus_, she reasoned.

"Any time now."

"Right, sorry." Hesitantly, Hermione reached out and ran her hand through the side of Snape's greasy hair, pulling it up and away from his face so that it wouldn't obscure her vision and cause her to accidentally cut his ear off in the process. A small thrill ran through her gut as she did this. She tried to ignore it. She took a moment to gather herself again, and then she did the same on the other side.

However, just when she pulled the hair up and caught a brief flash of something very unexpected, her body gave an enormous, electric jolt, and she jumped backwards with a squeak.

There was a loud thud as Snape leapt up and his chair toppled to the floor. He stood back, gaping at Hermione, his breath fast, and a long lock of golden hair — one that had so long been hidden, tucked away behind his ear — now framed the right side of his face.

"Did you feel it too?" Hermione breathed.

"Yes."

"What was—"

"Does it look like I know?"

"Well it happened when I... When I touched... I thought you got rid of that." Hermione pointed at the offending mark.

"Believe me," Snape growled, "it wasn't for lack of trying." He tucked it quickly back behind his curtain of greasy black hair, once more hiding it from view.

"You mean you couldn't—"

"Cut it, dye it, anything. The damn thing is just as persistent as you are, and nearly as irritating."

"Is that why you wanted me to cut your hair?" she asked quietly. "Do you think I might be the only one who—"

"There's only one way to find out, isn't there?" he snapped, reaching down and righting the chair in one flawless motion. "Pick up those scissors. Complete the task you have been given."

He eyed her menacingly once she had the scissors back in her hands.

"And don't you dare try anything _funny _with those," he said.

* * *

Hermione sat on the edge of the paisley bedspread, trying her best to ignore how depressingly light her head felt (and how utterly ridiculous it was that she cared). Even Snape had been a good enough sport about it all. Though that could have been largely due to the fact that Hermione did have the power to cut "the damn thing" as it turned out. She took secret pleasure in leaving enough so that it was still exceptionally visible.

Snape was currently in the bathroom taking a shower. Upon seeing Hermione's handiwork, he had simply scowled, snarled, "I suppose it will have to do," and then stalked off without so much as a word of gratitude. Not that she had been expecting any, really.

Once alone, and upon reflection, Hermione thought his new haircut looked sort nice in a way; the splash of gold at his temple was startling, but not in a bad way. She kind of liked it. In fact, she thought the whole thing was a bit funny. All this time, she never knew that Snape could actually look... alright. And with nothing more than a simple haircut. Granted, his teeth were still more than a bit crooked and his nose was hopeless, but with his hair combed just right... and under the right lighting... and if she was standing back a ways... Hermione was convinced that he could maybe, probably, sometimes, look somewhat... un-repugnant.

All of a sudden the bathroom door opened and Snape emerged, once again fully clothed in Muggle attire. He even seemed to be sporting the suspiciously fast-growing hints of five o'clock shadow along his tightly clenched jaw. His hair was still damp from the shower, but "the wet look" most definitely worked in his favor. He looked rugged and dangerous and infinitely more intimidating than usual.

Scratch un-repugnant, Snape looked borderline hunky.

Hermione suppressed a fit of giggles. She must be clinically psychotic. She could not believe that she had just put "Snape" and "hunky" in the same thought without any sort of "is the farthest thing from" in between. _He should definitely grow in a beard more often_, she thought dazedly, as the man in question gave her an irritable scowl and motioned her to follow him out the door.

They took the stairs this time, and when they entered back into the hall on the first floor, Snape took an unexpected turn. He headed directly towards an exit door that had the words "Employees Only" plastered in big bold letters across the middle.

Accustomed to having to check out of an inn before leaving, Hermione felt mildly nervous as they barged through the restricted exit and out into the alley in which she had awoken the previous night. They were in disguise, running from mortal peril, and so there were likely going to be many illegal things on their future agenda. She would just have to get used to that, Hermione reasoned with herself as she trotted along to keep up with Snape's long strides. They were now out of the alley and on the main street. Back in public at last! Hermione had never been so happy to see strangers.

She had no idea where they were going or how they were going to get there, though Snape seemed confident enough. She could ask him, of course, but then she wasn't exactly up to getting her head bitten off just yet. For heaven's sake, she hadn't even had breakfast.

She wished they could simply Apparate as far as possible, and _then_ resort to Muggle travel. Harry made Side-Along Apparition sound so easy. Admittedly, she supposed they couldn't just Apparate _anywhere, _in case there were Muggles around. And it was probably a safe bet that most of the designated "safe" Apparition zones were being watched by unfriendly eyes. Snape knew what he was doing.

Or did he…

"Do you want me to hail us a cab?" Hermione suggested helpfully as they finally came to stop at a crosswalk.

"Do I want you to _what_?" Snape snarled in return.

Hermione gave him a sly, sideways look. "You do know what I mean, don't you, Professor? Surely you know how to hail a cab…"

He glared down at her where she stood just beside his right elbow, and after a long moment, he rolled his eyes. "Why should I be fluent in such inane Muggle customs?"

"Gee, I dunno, perhaps for an occasion like this?"

"I didn't exactly plan on _having _an occasion like this, did I?"

"What, and I had it circled on my calendar?"

"Maybe if you had, you might have shown the good sense _not _to go frolicking off into the forest like a deranged little twit."

"If by 'frolicking' you mean 'dragged off helplessly by a demented rampaging troll monster' then yes, I suppose you're right. I don't know why I wasn't better prepared for that."

Snape opened his mouth to say something, but Hermione cut him off.

"The light's green," she snapped, brushing past him. "And don't worry," she called over her shoulder. "I _am _fluent in inane Muggle customs, so I should have no problem getting us a cab."

* * *

Their travels for that day were long, miserable, uncomfortable, but surprisingly uneventful. They went by cab, train, and eventually even airplane. Hermione had no idea how Snape did all of these things. Somehow, taxicab notwithstanding, he always managed to be prepared for everything that came their way. Needless to say, Hermione was grudgingly impressed, and despite their perilous situation, she found that she felt safe with Snape—safer, even, than she might have felt with Dumbledore. After all, Dumbledore was not exactly the type of person who could easily disappear in a crowd.

Once she finally worked up the courage to ask, the most Hermione could weasel out of Snape about where they were headed was that they would eventually end up somewhere in southwest Switzerland. Once there, they would take yet another cab to some undisclosed remote location, where, supposedly, a member of the Order would be waiting with a couple of broomsticks and directions for the final part of their journey.

The only hiccup in their plans occurred when they arrived at the airport and realized that they did not have near enough Muggle money for the appropriate plane tickets. At that point, Snape's powers of improvisation clearly came into play—as did that "illegal agenda" Hermione had so been dreading. They hung around the check-in line until they espied a young couple who were also booked on their intended flight, and Snape (with Hermione tagging warily along behind), followed them towards security.

Halfway there, Snape suddenly grabbed Hermione's arm, hurried up a few steps, stuck one of his large feet directly in front of her, giving her back a good, hard push.

This sent Hermione catapulting to the ground with a yelp of surprise — or, what would have been the ground if the sadly oblivious couple had not been right in her path.

"I'm sorry — terribly sorry — all my fault — such a klutz — let me help you up — I don't know what came over me—"

By the time Hermione had managed to get herself, and the poor woman she had knocked over, off the floor, Snape was already sitting calmly on a bench a dozen yards away, looking just as bored and casual as always.

"What the hell! What the bloody _hell _was that?" Hermione stormed over to him, fighting the overwhelming urge to pull out her wand and shove it right up one of his oversized nostrils.

"Language, please, Miss Granger," Snape said with a smirk. Then he slowly pulled a pair of plane tickets out of his sleeve. "Wouldn't you know, it seems that you have a surprisingly useful quality after all. You managed to provide a very effective, albeit... ungraceful distraction."

"Fine — whatever — ha, ha — very funny — did you steal those?" She made to snatch the boarding passes out of his hand, but he pulled away too quickly.

"What do you think?" he drawled. "Of course I stole them. I had to—"

"But those people will notice their tickets are missing the second they reach security!" she whined. "They're not stupid, they'll know it was us. Or at least they'll know I had something to do with it. I thought you wanted to 'avoid suspicion.'"

"You do have an extremely unhealthy habit of interrupting people, Miss Granger," Snape said icily. "If you had let me finish my sentence, you would have known that I stole their boarding passes, _replicated them_, and then returned them — and all in the brief thirty seconds that your ridiculous floundering afforded me. I must say, sometimes I impress even myself."

Hermione felt her anger drain away. "Oh."

_That was rather clever, actually_, she thought (though she clearly did not articulate this particular observation). Then, just as Hermione opened her mouth to say something semi-congratulatory, she paused. "Hang on," she said slowly. "Let me see those tickets."

Snape gave her a wary glance, then handed them over.

Hermione took one look at them and groaned.

"What now?" Snape snarled.

Hermione exhaled noisily and pointed at something she could not believe he had overlooked. "Are there going to be _two_ Mr. and Mrs. Concannons on the plane, then? These tickets have to have _our _names, not theirs. We need different names, different seats, and a whole bunch of other different things that I don't even know about!"

Instantly Snape stood and snatched back the boarding passes. Then he took off towards a row of phone cubbies.

Hermione followed quickly, wondering when the hell he would actually fill her in on what he was doing. She saw him pull out his wand, and did her best to shield him from public view as he poked at the tickets, magically adjusting the names, but nothing else.

"Don't you think the gate agent is going to notice something?" Hermione hissed in a whisper once they had cleared security and made their way towards the gate. "What if the same tickets won't go through the machine twice? If those Concannon people have already—"

"Then we will just have to be on the plane first, won't we? Let _them _deal with this gate... person."

So, that's what they did. Snape and Hermione slowly inched and butted their way into the front of the line, a few scant feet ahead of the unsuspecting Concannon couple. Hermione held her breath as she handed the gate agent her boarding pass, surprised when the woman was far too busy making disgusting flirty eyes at Snape (who, needless to say, was paying her absolutely no attention).

They made it through, and then hurried down the bridge as fast as they could without seeming like they were hurrying.

Hermione was a nervous wreck from the second she sat down in 27 E, until the final moment when she heard the unmistakable sound of the hatch door closing. Thankfully, the Concannons never showed up. Hermione couldn't help feeling a small pang of guilt at their expense.

Much to her chagrin, Snape had managed to nab the window seat, which left Hermione squeezed uncomfortably into the middle, right next to a very portly man whose long hair smelled dreadfully of molten tar and peanut butter. She knew this because he had an appalling habit of leaning his head against her shoulder — after which she would discreetly shake him off and lean even farther towards Snape (who would then, with one reluctant finger, immediately proceed to push her right back).

If there was one thing she learned on that flight, it was the fact that Severus Snape and Muggle flying did not agree one bit. He spent the entire time either puking into a bag, or sitting with his hands clenched in white-knuckled grips on the armrests, a noticeably green sheen on his cheeks.

Despite the smell of tar, peanut butter, vomit, the sound of retching, and the enormous snores coming from the fellow on her left, Hermione did manage to catch some sleep. However, the little sleep she had was riddled with nightmares: Visions of those horrible red eyes and that chilling laughter. This time, when the cold hands wrapped around her throat, she could feel warm, sticky blood bubbling out of the corners of her mouth as she tried desperately to scream but couldn't.

When she finally woke, she was shaking violently, her breathing fast and labored, and her face drenched with sweat. She began to feel extremely claustrophobic. There was nowhere to run. She was trapped, squeezed into this tiny seat, closed in on every side. They were thousands of feet in the air and there was nowhere to run. People were trying to kill her — not just people, but wizards, _dark _wizards, _Death Eaters_. Her breath came short, she couldn't force her lungs to expand, she involuntarily began to make a nervous whining sound in the back of her throat. Any moment she was going to scream! She didn't care who heard her, or what sort of spectacle she made, she just wanted to get out! GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT-

Then, all of a sudden, she felt a slight pressure on the back of her hand. The gentle, yet forceful, enveloping touch of a warm palm. She looked over just in time to see Snape pull his hand away and rest it back on his lap.

He made no other indication that he even acknowledged her existence, instead continuing to stare stoically out the window, his face blank and unreadable as always.

As if by magic, Hermione felt herself calm. Her heartbeat slowed, and her breathing became even and natural. She knew that Snape had probably only done that as a silent warning for her to "get a hold of herself' or to "stop drawing attention," but it calmed her more to think that on some level, deep down, he had merely wanted to comfort her.

In any case, she felt better.

Snape was there, she was safe, and they were well on their way to Switzerland.

* * *

They taxied for what seems like hours (something about ice on the runway). In her boredom, Hermione took to studying the mark on her palm, tracing it subconsciously with her fingers. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Snape was watching her actions avidly. He never said anything about it, however, and when she turned towards him, he looked hurriedly away.

_Maybe he's embarrassed,_ Hermione thought to herself moodily. _Ashamed to have had his life saved by an obnoxious Gryffindor brat like me. Well, he can bloody well get over himself._ She looked at him again, discreetly out of the corner of her eye. _God, what a wanker._

Finally, they managed to get off the airplane. Just as the two of them made their way into the main lobby of the airport, Snape suddenly grabbed the back of Hermione's neck and forced her head down. She let out a yelp of pain, and Snape covered her mouth.

"Shut up," he hissed in her ear. Then he forcefully turned her head in the direction of a large waiting area. A man was standing there wearing a bright yellow rain coat, a kilt, and neon crocs on his enormous feet.

"That's Goyle Sr. there in yellow. Do you see him?"

Hermione's heart leapt into her throat. That was why the man looked so out of place. He was a wizard. A Death Eater. "Does that mean they know about us?" Hermione gasped. "Do they know where we're going? Should we go somewhere else? Should we—?"

"Be _quiet_," Snape hissed. "We'll discuss this later. At present, we need to move."

As Snape dragged her away, Hermione looked over her shoulder to see Goyle reach out and grab a girl with curly brown hair by her backpack, whirling her viciously around to stare her right in the face.

Hermione was suddenly very grateful that her hair was blond.

"So?" she said quietly as they crammed into the back of a taxi.

"If that had been anyone other than Goyle, I would say that we were in trouble," Snape replied, sweeping his dark eyes over every window as the taxi pulled away from the curb. "But the fact that it is him tells me the Dark Lord does not think it very likely we are here."

Hermione felt herself breathe a little easier.

Snape gave her hard look. "We will continue with our original plan. You... take a nap or something. Rest your eyes. We have a long night ahead of us, and I don't want you going narcoleptic chipmunk on me in the middle of the forest."

Barely suppressing a groan, Hermione hunched down against the cab door and shut her eyes in hopes of nightmare-less sleep. Sleep did not come easily. Her brain was wide awake, and all the events of the past three days kept playing over and over again in her head. It certainly had been an adventure. Hermione wondered briefly what Harry and Ron were doing back at Hogwarts. Did they know what had happened to her? Did they know she was safe? She assumed Dumbledore had filled them in, but those two had always been prone to worrying. Worrying, and doing... rash things.

Just as Hermione finally began to drift off, she wondered hazily who from the Order would be waiting with the brooms at the "remote location."

Her stomach rumbled.

Whoever it was, she hoped they brought food.

* * *

Thankfully, Snape took pity on Hermione's grumbling stomach about an hour into the journey and asked the cab driver to pull over. They hurried into a small deli and bought a couple of sandwiches with the rest of Snape's stash of Muggle money (making sure to first set a portion aside for the cab fare).

Hermione devoured her sandwich in minutes; the terrible airplane food had not done much to hold her over.

"How much farther?" she asked, licking the last few drops of mustard off her fingers.

Snape continued to stare out the window. "Another two hours at least. We will then proceed on foot through the woods. A mile, perhaps."

Hermione nodded tiredly. She had been expecting that. "Remote location" almost always meant no roads.

* * *

Hermione gave her overlarge sleeve a final, angry yank, and winced as it ripped on the branches that had ensnared it.

They were in the middle of a forest, the sun had fully set, and the mosquitoes were out in swarms.

The tramp through the woods had been extremely miserable for Hermione. Half because of the bugs, and half because Snape had substantially longer legs than she, and did not like it when she fell behind. He took to shining his wand light directly in her eyes until she could catch up, the resulting glare causing her to trip constantly and snag her clothing on sharp branches (which obviously only impeded her progress even further). And all the while Snape continued to make his customarily nasty, smarting comments under his breath. The kind that set Hermione's teeth grinding and her hands itching to grab the nearest tree branch and beat him across the face with it.

Snape motioned Hermione to follow closely behind him as they spotted a small dark figure in the clearing ahead. This figure was definitely human in shape, but his (her?) hair stuck out at odd angles, and beneath the faint glow of moonlight, it appeared to be a strangely bright color of pink…

"Tonks?" Hermione shrieked happily. "It's you! Tonks, it's so wonderful to see you!" Hermione launched herself out of the woods and directly at the small woman, throwing her arms around her neck and nearly sobbing with delight.

Tonks laughed, returning Hermione's hug. "Wotcher, Hermione. Glad to see you too," she said with another chuckle. "Hah — I'll bet it's nice to see a friendly face for a change, yeah?"

Hermione tightened her already vice-like hold. "Mmmh, _friend_," she mumbled into her shoulder.

Finally, Tonks managed to pull herself out of Hermione's arms. When she did, she let out a gasp. "Good grief, what's he done to you, poor girl? Look at that hair! It's so short and straight and... _blond_!"

"Oh, I know, isn't it dreadful?" Hermione whined, running a hand through her hair, still smiling despite it all. "But Professor Snape said he'd change it back whenever we get to... wherever it is that we're going."

Tonks gave another gasp as Snape walked into the circle of wandlight. "Holy Hippogriffs," she breathed. "Is that you, Professor? You look... well I mean... smashing. And believe me, I never thought I'd be saying that to _you _of all people... er... Who's responsible for this? You or... Surely Hermione. I wouldn't trust you within ten feet of my head with a pair of scissors. Honestly, though, honestly, you look ten years younger, easy. And all it took was a simple—"

"The _brooms_, if you please, Nymphadora. And once you stop gaping like a thunderstruck buffoon, would you mind telling us where in bloody hell we're supposed to be going?"

Tonks straightened her face and gave an audible _humph_. "I see you're still a fluffy little ball of sunshine, aren't you?" she quipped, turning to give Hermione a quick wink. Then she walked over to the nearest tree and grabbed something up from the base of its enormous trunk. "Well, here you go," she said, holding out two very questionable looking brooms. Cleansweeps, both of which appeared to be extremely old. "And mind you, don't get lost. There are only so many hours of night time here, and you don't want to be spotted when the sun comes up. Especially with that flashy gold thing you're sporting on the side of your forehead there, Professor."

"Disapparate already," Snape growled.

"Alright, alright I'm going. No need to get snarky on me."

Hermione was sad to see Tonks go, but she knew that she and Snape needed to get on their way. She gave the woman one last hug, and then waved goodbye as Tonks turned on the spot, and with a sharp _pop_, disappeared.

Snape handed Hermione her broom.

"Uh…" Hermione cleared her throat. "I guess there's something I sort of haven't told you..."

"I trust it isn't anything else _illegal_, is it, Miss Cottontail?"

Hermione blushed. "No, it's just. Er... I'm not exactly the best flyer—"

Snape scoffed. "Is that all? You're fine. Mount up, and stop complaining, we're nearly there."

"No really, I—" Hermione started to protest, but Snape was already in the air.

Muttering and cursing, Hermione kicked off from the ground and the battered old Cleansweep swept upwards in an extremely wobbly arch.

_I can do this_, she thought determinedly to herself. _I can do this. If Ron can do this, I can bloody do this._

She looked up to find that Snape was already a small black dot high above her head. Petrified of losing him in the dark, Hermione urged her broom into as much speed as she dared. Then, just when she thought she'd gotten the hang of it, an enormous gust of tailwind slammed into her back. Startled, she leaned forward and shot upwards into the sky, completely out of control, shrieking all the way.

She blew right by Snape, still screaming and hugging her body in a death grip to her broom handle. Then, just as quickly as it had come, the wind left, Hermione fell back, and once again began to coast at a calm, normal pace.

She heard the sound of a deep, rumbling chuckle, as Snape flew up to join her.

"Excellent, Granger. Longbottom would be in stitches." There was a distinctly amused timbre in his voice.

"Stuff your jokes," Hermione gasped. "That was really scary."

"It was also really entertaining."

"I think I'm going to throw up."

"Please do so in the other direction."

"You're not being very considerate, you know."

"And you are being an impossible nuisance, which I think evens the score a bit. Additionally, I would advise you to stop screaming like a banshee with a head wound. You are going to get us both killed."

"I thought you found it _entertaining_."

"I do. What I don't find entertaining is having to face Turnus Frend when he is out for your blood."

"Oh. Right."

After a few more traded insults and unpleasant commentary on Hermione's "form," Snape finally conceded that Hermione was, indeed, a terrible flyer, and reluctantly agreed to tow her the rest of the way. He held on to the front end of Hermione's broom, while she wrapped her arms with much trepidation around his waist.

The wind was icy cold, and Hermione pressed her cheek against Snape's warm side, wondering at this new, but strangely wonderful feeling of his powerful body so close to hers.

While Hermione was acutely embarrassed about having to be towed, she was also secretly very pleased about the advantages that being bad at flying had afforded her.

_I hope we get there soon_… Hermione smiled, tightening her grip ever so slightly. _But not_ too _soon_.

* * *

A/N: Afraid to say that the "un-repungant" line does not entirely belong to me. It was graciously borrowed from the hilarious Diane Chambers of the 1980's beloved T.V. show CHEERS. Couldn't help it. Adore her. Adore that show.


	13. Waiting

**Chapter Thirteen**

Severus Snape squinted against the chilly Northern wind and tightened his grip on both brooms with steadily numbing fingers. It was the dead of night, and they would soon be approaching mountain territory. He needed to focus every bit of his concentration on what was in front of him.

His jaw clenched against a pounding headache. One brought on by the fact that he hadn't slept in three days. Or because his nose was still only partially mended. Or both. They were equally uncomfortable.

The moon was barely a sliver in the sky. Instead, the starlight, unhindered by clouds, provided ample light to see the breathtaking scenery below. An enormous lake shimmered hundreds of feet beneath their feet, cocooned by a thick barrier of trees that rustled in slow, elegant waves. The mountains loomed ahead, dark silhouettes on the horizon and capped in white snow that glowed beneath the starlight like celestial beacons, guiding him through the night. Severus had neither the energy nor the effort to appreciate the scenery; all his concentration was focused on the task at hand... not the warm little arms currently wrapped around his waist.

Severus shifted uncomfortably. _Repulsive nuisance of a girl_, he thought venomously. _Seventeen years old, and can't fly a broom. Disgraceful._

Carefully, Severus pulled out a piece of parchment from his pocket and studied the rough map that Tonks, or someone equally as incompetent, had drawn for him. The longitude and latitude of the cottage they were headed towards had been written on the bottom left corner of the map.

Severus cast an appraising eye over their current position. By his calculations, they were probably less than an hour away. Which was fortunate, because the moon was already nearing the end of its arc.

Granger shifted the side of her head closer against Severus's rib cage, and it was then that Severus noticed his body felt uncomfortably warm. Severus chanced a glance down to see whether or not the girl had fallen asleep, but her face was hidden by that pesky mass of curly brown...

Severus let out a small gasp and released the broom handle in surprise. Her hair was _back_. Without any guiding energy to keep it aloft, Granger's Cleansweep plummeted, taking her right down along with it. Clearly, Granger had not been asleep, because the instant she felt she was falling, she let out an unearthly shriek of terror, flailing her limbs about and subsequently unseating herself from her already precarious position atop the broom.

"Bloody hell!" Severus cursed and threw his broom into an almost vertical dive, the wind howling in his ears as he plummeted after Granger's receding figure. He met her in mid-air, wrapped a firm arm around her waist, and pulled hard out of the dive as the treetops rushed to meet them. They were going too fast. The broom wouldn't slow in time. Severus shielded his face with his one free arm as they crashed into the branches of an enormous pine tree.

Surprisingly, they tumbled to the ground relatively unscathed. A few bruises and scratched faces later, they hit the last branch and dropping to the pine-covered ground with a soft thud. Severus grunted in pain as he broke their fall. He had landed on his back, while Granger lay splayed on top of him, her arms wrapped in a tight grip around his neck.

"What... did I say... about screaming," Severus choked, as he sat up and tried in vain to pry Granger's arms apart.

Granger was in near hysterics. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my–"

"Articulate as always, I see—and for Merlin's _sake_, would you let go!"

Granger still did not comply. "Why did you drop me? I can't believe you dropped me! How could you possibly have—" Granger shrieked again as a long lock of frizzy brown hair fell across her face.

"Stop making so much noise," Severus hissed.

"My, my hair is back - But how did... How did that _happen_?"

Granger finally released her arms as she reached up to feel her head.

Severus took the opportunity to promptly shove her off. "By magic, I assume! And how dare you defy me, how _dare _you use your wand to—"

Granger looked incredulous. "I didn't use my wand."

Snape was silent then, momentarily thrown off by her answer. He looked deep into her eyes, probing about in her mind in an attempt to confirm that what she was saying was true. "How did you do it, then?"

Her mouth trembled. "I... I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean, I didn't do it on purpose. I guess I was thinking about it a little. My hair, I mean. I was sort of wishing it was, you know, back to normal. But I swear I didn't mean to do magic! Honestly, I didn't even know I _could _do that."

Severus finally eased onto his feet, dusting the dirt and pine needles off his shirt as he did so. Then he reached up and jerked the broom from where it was still dangling halfway out of the tree. "If you wish it hard enough, you will find that there are, indeed, plenty of spells you can do without a wand, Miss Granger. The fact that you obsess over your _hair_ enough to actually change it back only proves how misplaced your worries really are." He sneered. "Anyway, it's done," he growled. "And I suppose it won't do any harm, now that we are no longer in the presence of Muggles." Severus inspected the broom in his hands, and, finding nothing extraordinarily wrong with it (though there wasn't much light to see by), he mounted. He waited for her to say something, but Granger simply stood there, staring back at him like a complete dolt. "Well, get on," he growled.

"Where's my broom?" she asked quietly.

Severus felt his insides ignite with anger. The _nerve_! He had just risked his very well-being to save her life, and here she was whining on about her sodding broom. "I don't see it anywhere, do you?" he snapped waspishly. "I find that I grow very tired of your constant complaining. We are less than an hour away from our destination, so I'll thank you to shut up and do as you're told. Now, get on the broom."

Thankfully, that seemed to set her straight and Granger closed her mouth with an audible snap. It seemed that all he had to do was crack the whip a bit, and she followed orders without a second thought.

Severus turned his eyes towards the white-speckled sky as Granger slid onto the broom behind him, her warmth seeming to burn like the sun against his back. And, as those bony little arms once again wrapped firmly around his middle, Severus felt the familiar feeling of discomfort begin to well up in his gut. _Noisy nuisance of a girl…_

* * *

"Sirius!" Hermione raced up the path towards the smiling figure in the doorway of the tiny cottage, waving jovially as the man laughed aloud in return.

"Hermione, you made it." Sirius put his hand on her shoulder and gave it an affectionate squeeze. "Glad to see you're alright." His eyes traveled up and down her body and he whistled. "You look terrible. What've you been doing? What are all those scratches from?" Then he looked up and saw Snape's approaching silhouette. "And what happened to the other broom?"

"Long story," she replied hastily. "What are you doing here? I mean, it's wonderful to see you, but–"

"Might we move this touching reunion inside," Snape drawled, marching his way directly between the two of them and promptly knocking Sirius's hand off Hermione's shoulder.

Hermione suddenly felt oddly cold without the contact, and opened her mouth for a bitter retort, but Sirius wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and she let it die in her throat. Hermione looked up at Sirius, who rolled his eyes at Snape. Then he stepped aside to usher her through the doorway. "I'll tell you what you need to know, Hermione. Let's just get out of the cold, shall we?" He flashed another smile, and Hermione was suddenly overcome by how pleasant it was to be around a man with at least some semblance of manners again.

Sirius flicked on the lights as they entered. "I know it's late – er, early – but let's start with a tour…"

* * *

The place Dumbledore had found them was apparently a summer home that once belonged to Professor McGonagall's late half-sister, Elda Pruitt. Elda had married a Muggle man, so a lot of the appliances and power systems operated much like a Muggle home. They had a generator for electricity, a well for water, and even a plumbing system.

However, Elda had clearly done her share of magic-working, because, aside from the cottage being unplottable, it was also much bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. In fact, it was so big, that by the time Sirius had finished showing them just the first floor, Hermione was swaying on her feet and quietly requested directions to the nearest shower and bed.

It took a moment for Sirius to lead her in the right direction, because he had only just arrived at the cottage a day ago himself, and had yet to memorize its extensive layout.

As for why Sirius was there, the answer was plain and simple: Dumbledore did not want him at Hogwarts anymore. Well, perhaps that could be rephrased. Dumbledore did not thing it was a _good idea _for Sirius to be at Hogwarts anymore. He was still a runaway convict after all, and the chances of him being found out were far too great a risk to continue letting him run around Hogsmeade – albeit in dog form.

Hermione didn't mind though, she was grateful that Sirius was around. She had always liked him (well not _always_), but now she felt a particular sort of bond with him. She knew now what it was like to be on the run and separated from family and friends. Though she was at least spared the horror of being accused of murder. Because even though his survival had caused all this trouble, Hermione was glad that Turnus had escaped before Snape could kill him. She did not like the idea of being the direct cause of another person's murder — Death Eater though he was.

She also did not want to be the cause of Snape committing murder. She respected his power, and hesitantly forgave him for the dark things he had done in his past—what she knew of, at least—but she was not entirely sure that she would be able to handle watching him display either right in front of her like that.

At last, Sirius led Hermione into a cozy little bedroom with a queen-size bed and periwinkle drapes. Snape's room was across and down the hall, and Sirius's bedroom was right next door. Sirius apologized that they would have to share a community bathroom, but Hermione didn't mind — just as long as there was an anvil-sized lock on the door.

* * *

Hermione felt loads better after her shower, thankful to at last have all the twigs and leaves out of her hair. Sirius had given her a pile of clothing for her to choose from that he said he had found in some drawers and must have once belonged to Elda. Hermione cringed as she fingered the decrepit, moth-ridden robes. _No thank you_, she thought determinedly. Fuzzy purple collars and lime green polka dots were not exactly her style. No wonder McGonagall never talked about poor old Elda. She seemed to represent everything of which the uptight Gryffindor Head did not approve.

Hermione snooped through the variously patterned and questionably colored robes before finally finding something along the lines of a nightgown that was an acceptably subdued shade of puce. She took a moment to check for spiders, and, finding none, pulled it over her head.

Her room, she found, was quite cozy. The bed was warm and soft, and there was a beautiful floor to ceiling window that opened onto a balcony overlooking what appeared to be a patio and small garden (she was on the second floor). The sun was just peeking out between the distant mountains as she crawled into bed, and it bathed the room in a warm golden light.

As she snuggled into the sheets, Hermione took a quick moment to look around and appraise the rest of her surroundings: an enormous vanity with a wide mirror, a book shelf that contained a small library of trashy Muggle romance novels (with a big cozy chair to read them in), an intimidatingly large oak wardrobe that Hermione did not even dare open for fear of what might be living inside, and more pillows than she had ever seen in her entire life (all various shades of blue to match the drapes, of course). None of these things seemed particularly useful to Hermione, but she felt comforted by their presence all the same.

With all the thoughts and fears rattling around in her head, Hermione felt sure that she would never get a wink of sleep. But the second her head sunk into the downy pillow, she was out like a light.

* * *

It was the dead of night and Hermione was lost somewhere on the first floor in search of stairs. She paused as she saw a light on behind a pair of double doors, and she crept silently over to investigate.

Upon opening the doors, she found an enormous study, every wall filled to exploding with books. There were huge plush armchairs by the fireplace, two sofas, a lovely little writing desk on the far wall, and a beautiful Persian rug underfoot. It took a moment before she realized that the room was occupied. Professor Snape, in all his dark and brooding glory, sat in one of the chairs by the fire, his eyes fixed upon the pages of a very large book.

Without saying a word, Hermione padded silently across the carpet and came to a stop directly in front of Snape. Perhaps irritated by the shadow that now intruded upon his reading light, Snape looked up and found Hermione staring at him avidly.

The firelight danced in the reflection of his dark eyes as he returned Hermione's stare over the spine of his book. Hermione stared right back, her head beginning to buzz faintly with adrenaline, her breathing shallow. What was she supposed to say now? Why had she even come in here?

Snape made no move to lower his book or engage her in any sort of conversation — he simply sat there and looked at her. But while his face remained as stony and impassive as ever, his eyes were alive with something strange, hard to place, and yet very exciting all the same. It felt as though a current of electricity were sifting through the air, causing the fine hairs on Hermione's arms to stand on end and her skin to prickle and tingle in the most delightful way.

The golden lock of hair at Snape's temple fell askew against his cheek and Hermione was overcome with the strange desire to reach out and brush it aside.

Just as her hand began to move, Snape turned his eyes back to the pages in front of him and he appeared to instantly forget all about her and whatever sort of moment she thought they were sharing.

Normally, this would not have bothered Hermione all that much, as she had grown used to this sort of behavior. But she must have been on her last nerve, because, quite suddenly, something seemed to explode within Hermione's chest. She reached out, ripped the book from Snape's hands. Then, with a flick of her arm, she threw the book straight into the fire. Snape's eyes were wide with surprise, his body stilled, even paralyzed, with shock. Before she even knew what she was doing, before Snape could say a word or even react in any way, Hermione wrapped her hands around his wrists and pinned them firmly to the armrests.

She leaned towards him. "Do not ignore me," she whispered breathlessly into his ear, her every limb trembling with disbelief at what she was doing.

Snape's arms tensed beneath her grasp, but he did not struggle.

Hermione looked deep into his stormy eyes and leaned down towards him until her lips were mere inches away from his. She could feel his warm breath against her chin. His lips were slightly parted, his jaw slack as he fought against his disbelief. Hermione knew this was her best chance to press her advantage. With a now-or-never resolve, she moved in to finally close that distance between them. To finally, finally, finally steal that kiss that she had been wanting for _so long_. Her heart fluttered wildly in chest, her stomach knotted with anticipation; she was so close to getting what she wanted, so close to knowing what he tasted like, so close to at last being able to–

Hermione opened her eyes to the sound of banging pots and running sink water. The air smelled of food. Burned food.

With a frustrated sigh, Hermione stretched and peeled back the warmth of her comforter. It would figure that the first good dream she'd had in weeks would be interrupted at precisely the worst moment.

Hermione swept aside her periwinkle drapes and squinted against the sunlight. It must have been at least late afternoon, and with a squeak, Hermione rushed to get dressed.

Dubious of being seen in her moth-eaten nightgown, Hermione hunted through a dresser next to the wardrobe until she found a small stash of Muggle clothing. They were mostly old-fashioned things, nowhere near her customary blue jeans and jumper, but she finally found a nice rose-colored sundress with a heart-shaped neckline that was relatively her size.

After a quick trip to the bathroom to wash her face and smooth her hair (which she was horrified to notice was a whole shade lighter than it had been before), she finally made her way downstairs to the kitchen.

She walked in through the enormous double doors just in time to see Sirius dumping the remains of two charred pieces of bacon into the bin.

He looked up as she entered and gave her a cheery smile. "Morning, Hermione — I see you were able to find something a bit more fashionable than I was, well done." He walked over and opened a window above the sink. "I would offer you breakfast, but I'm a bloody awful cook – as I'm sure you've noticed by now. Sorry about the smoke."

Hermione laughed. "That's alright. I'm not great myself, but I would be happy to make a go of it, if you can tell me where everything is."

"Certainly." Sirius stepped aside and made a dramatic gesture of welcoming her into the kitchen.

"And, um…" Hermione paused awkwardly. "I was wondering if you could… er… fill me in, I suppose, on what exactly is supposed to happen now. I confess I don't quite know how to handle all of..." She gestured helplessly. "This."

Sirius chuckled as he opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs. "Been a bit of a whirlwind, hasn't it?"

Hermione nodded emphatically.

"Wish I had an explanation for you, or a good piece of advice. But all I know to do now is wait. Wait to hear from Dumbledore, and hope that everything turns out." His voice turned decidedly gloomy at that remark. "On the bright side, at least we're not hunkered down in a cave, living off rats."

Hermione grimaced and nodded again as she slid the pan onto the stove and ignited the gas. The orange flame curled up around the black edges of the pan, and for a moment, Hermione found herself watching it, her thoughts drifting back to the things that had happened so far and how fast her life seemed to have turned around. She stifled a yawn and Sirius opened a cupboard to pull out a small mug.

"Coffee?" he offered.

Hermione gave him an incredulous look. "You can't fry bacon, but you can make coffee?"

Sirius snorted. "Actually, I can't do either. Old Goldilocks made a pot when he woke up this morning. I tell you that bloke is a nightmare without his caffeine."

"What? What do you mean Goldi… Oh!" Hermione covered her mouth as she snorted with laughter. "Oh, Sirius, that's not very nice!"

"Isn't it?" Sirius replied innocently, pressing a steaming mug into her hands.

Hermione accepted it gratefully and tried to school her expression. "I kind of like his hair. I mean, it's not entirely horrible."

Sirius gave Hermione an odd look at that, and she turned hurriedly back to her cooking.

"Where is Professor Snape, anyway?" she said as nonchalantly as she could manage, cracking an egg and pouring it onto the sizzling pan.

Sirius shrugged. "Fuck all if I know. Probably off sulking somewhere."

"Sulking?"

Sirius gave Hermione a mischievous smile. "Apparently he's still miffed that I got the bigger bedroom."

Hermione laughed and nodded. Secretly, she sort of wished that Snape _had _gotten the bigger room. Then he would be right next door.

After breakfast, Sirius gave Snape and Hermione the rest of the tour, revealing several sitting rooms with large fireplaces, a plethora of bathrooms, a basement that Sirius informed them was "mostly filled with rubbish," and a monstrously huge study. From which Hermione had to immediately excuse herself, as images from her recent dream had instantly flashed to mind.

Now she and Sirius were sitting out on the patio, drinking tea and discussing everything that had been going on at Hogwarts since Hermione's sudden departure. Even though it was snowing outside, the surrounding air had been enchanted to remain the perfect temperature. Sirius informed Hermione that Dumbledore and the rest of the staff had eventually been able to quench the forest fire that night she disappeared, and that by the time Sirius had left, the Forbidden Forest seemed to have begun the initial stages of re-growing itself.

"And Harry and Ron know I'm alright, don't they?"

Sirius nodded as he set down his cup. "I sent an owl to Dumbledore the night that you arrived. I assume he relayed that message on to them."

Hermione took another sip of her tea. "So is that really all we're expected to do now? Just… wait for something to happen?"

"Pretty much," Sirius said lightly, though Hermione could easily detect the suppressed bitterness in his voice.

"Well, I certainly hope it isn't for too long. I'll fall hopelessly behind in my classes!"

Sirius roared with laughter. "Only you, Hermione, would think about homework at a time like this."

Hermione pursed her lips. "I don't see why that's funny. I fully understand the situation, and I'm lucky to be alive, I'm sure, I try to keep everything in perspective but classwork is _important_. For my future, you know? I'm still trying to make up for the blasted E I received in Ancient Runes last semester. As much as I love that class, I'm finding it difficult… to…" Hermione trailed off as a strange sound began to drift in from the direction of the basement. "What's that?" She asked after a brief moment.

"Music," Sirius replied.

"Yes, thank you, I realized — but, who is playing it?"

"Knew he'd sniff it out eventually," Sirius muttered into his teacup.

"I'm sorry, who's 'he'? Surely that's not… I mean, _surely _that can't be…"

China clattered as Sirius returned his cup to its saucer. "Professor Snape is without a doubt the most loathsome, self-centered, and thoroughly unpleasant man I have ever met in my life." He paused and closed his eyes, relaxing his head against the back of his chair.

Then Sirius gave a deep sigh. "But the son of a bitch plays a beautiful piano."

* * *

Hermione stood outside the basement door, drinking in the intricate melody that Professor Snape was weaving just below her feet.

She didn't dare go inside for fear of alerting him to her presence and causing him to stop. Instead, she simply closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like to watch him play: His long, pale fingers flying across the keys, his neck bent in a graceful arch, his eyes narrowed in intense concentration.

She had to admit, her mind certainly painted a fine picture.

Hermione swayed on her feet and put a hand out against the door to steady herself — only she put it down a bit harder than she meant to and caused a sharp rattling noise as the door knocked against its frame. The music stopped. Hermione's eyes widened as she heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and with a gasp, she turned tail and scampered down the hall towards the study.

As she shut the doors quickly behind her, she had a moment to fully take in the sight of such plentiful bookshelves. It was then that she became immediately determined to shake off the images from her dream (and her unhealthy attraction to a certain Professor) and to study books until her eyes fell out. If she didn't have a class to learn things in, she might as well teach herself!

* * *

Hermione was up late that night, having dedicated the past four hours to brushing up on her Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. She fell into bed around two in the morning, and tossed and turned for a good hour before finally sinking into a fitful sleep.

She was drifting down the hallway outside her door. There was a light on at the far end, and she felt herself drawn towards it.

It was strange. Her vision was not her own.

Hermione watched as though through a ghost's eyes as she glided down the dark hallway towards the closed door. She reached the door, paused, and then went through it as though it were not even there.

It was Snape's room.

There was a fire going in the fireplace and two figures were set in harsh contrast against the golden flames.

"Thought you could fool me, did you?" hissed the tall, robed figure.

Another figure, a man, was hunched against the opposite wall, next to the door, clutching a chair and mere seconds, it seemed, from collapsing to the floor.

"Thought you could betray me, thought you could spy and lie and cheat and play everyone around you like pawns in a chess match! Well, you couldn't play me, Severus. You couldn't fool me, and now you're going to pay. _CRUCIO_!"

Snape screamed and fell jerking to the floor, the chair toppling down beside him. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as his entire body seemed to curl in on itself in pain.

Voldemort cackled gleefully. "You failed, Severus, and now you will die for it!"

Snape screamed again in return, his face contorted with agony. Blood began to stream from his nose, so much blood, rolling down his chin and pooling on the floor beneath his head

"Any last words, Sev… Ah…" All of a sudden, as though in slow motion, Voldemort looked up and Hermione found herself staring directly into a pair of red, glowing eyes.

"Hello, Mudblood," he rasped. "You look surprised. Did you think this was a dream?"

Hermione's mind reeled. Wait, wasn't it? A horrible idea flashed through her head, and Hermione's heart catapulted itself into her throat. Was what she was seeing a vision like Harry's? Was this really happening?

As if to answer just that, Voldemort's mouth turned up into a cruel smile. "Stop me if you can, Mudblood. But by the time you wake up…" Voldemort raised his wand and pointed it directly at Snape's head. "You never liked him much, did you? _Avada Kedavra_!"

There was a flash of green light, and then Hermione put every last shred of energy into wrenching her eyes open. She shot out of her bed, snatched her wand off the dresser, tore open her bedroom door, and ran down the hall towards Snape's room, praying and praying and praying that she wasn't too late. Just like in her vision, there was a light coming from beneath the door and she felt all the breath leave her body as she saw a flash of green against the floorboards.

Finally she reached the end of the hall and snatched the door handle. It was locked tight. Desperately, she threw herself against the door, slamming her shoulder into it with all her might. "Professor Snape!" she shrieked "Oh God, Professor Snape! Please be alright, we're coming! Sirius! Sirius it's _Him_! Help! Professor Snape!"

There was an answering crash from beyond the door and Hermione gasped as she felt something warm and sticky trickle between her toes. She looked down to see a dark liquid seeping from beneath the door. At this, Hermione burst into hysterical sobs, throwing every opening curse she could think of against the locked handle with her wand, but to no avail.

He was dead! He was dead!

Then, the door opened, the hallway flooded with light, and Professor Severus Snape stood framed in the doorway looking perfectly healthy, perfectly alone, and perfectly furious.

"What the bloody hell is going on!" he roared.

"P-Professor," Hermione stammered, her eyes wildly searching the room for any signs of Voldemort. She looked down at her feet and saw a shattered inkbottle on the floor, a pool of ink (not blood) currently staining the bottoms of her toes.

Sirius came rushing up in just his boxer shorts, his wand out, and his eyes wide with fear. "Whassamatter?" he gasped. "I thought I heard – Did you say – What's going on?"

As another second ticked by and Voldemort still did not show, Hermione felt the wild fear that had previously gripped her heart so tightly, slowly release its hold and disappear.

It had all been a nightmare.

Just another nightmare.

She must be going absolutely insane.

"Well? Explain yourself, Granger," Snape growled irritably. "Waking us all up in the middle of the night, screaming like a lunatic — you'd better have a damn good reason for this."

"I–I–" Hermione stalled, unable to think of a suitable response. "N-nightmare," she finally blurted, looking back and forth between both faces — one concerned, and the other livid. "I–I–I thought that — that — Vol — that You-Know-Who had — that he was…" With a shaking hand Hermione reached up and rubbed the tears from her eyes. "Never mind," she muttered. "I'm sorry, Sirius, Professor — it — won't happen again."

"I should fucking think _not_," Snape snarled, pulling his night robe tighter around himself.

"Alright, Hermione, just calm down," Sirius said after shooting Snape a venomous look. He took a deep breath and finally lowered his wand back to his side. "As long as you're okay. Just… next time, try to make sure it's actually happening, alright?"

Hermione nodded numbly as Snape gave them both one last sneer and slammed the door in their faces.

Sirius made a very rude gesture at the closed door before turning back to Hermione. "Would you feel better if I walked you back to your room?"

Hermione laughed nervously. "No, that's alright. I think I'll… go downstairs and read for a little while. You know, now that I'm up and everything. Sorry I woke you."

Sirius gave Hermione an assessing look. "Sure you're alright? You look half dead — that must have been some nightmare. What exactly did you think was happening?"

Hermione rubbed her eyes again and shook her head. "It really doesn't matter. I'm just glad it was dream. Even if it meant putting myself on Professor Snape's bad side."

Sirius rolled his eyes. "Hermione, that man doesn't _have_ any other side."


	14. Blundering Hearts

**Chapter Fourteen**

Visions of her nightmare plagued Hermione all through the next day. She couldn't so much as look at Professor Snape without remembering the sight of him twitching and screaming on the hearth rug with Voldemort's black robed figure looming over him. She was furious with herself for believing that it had been real, and for creating a ridiculous fuss. She hated making a fool of herself, and every time she was around Snape, it seemed as though that was all she was capable of doing.

Perhaps it was because of this that Hermione went on to spend most of her time either visiting with Sirius or holed up in the library. On rare occasions, she would camp outside the basement door and listen to Professor Snape hammering away at the piano, entranced despite herself by the way that every melody seemed to take on a life of its own. She had no idea whether he was playing from sheet music, from memory, or simply making it up on the spot, but she found immense comfort in his playing — as though she were catching a glimpse of his softer side, the martyr, the side that had saved her life.

Hermione began to find her days rather lonesome after a while. At first she had somewhat enjoyed the solitude and the freedom to spend her time as she pleased. But it wasn't long before she truly and deeply began to miss the constant, bracing presence of her friends. She even would have been grateful to listen to Ron moan on about his Divination homework, if it meant she could be in his company for a few hours.

Then she remembered what happened last time she had been with Ron. She remembered his confession, the kiss, and the terrible way she had handled it all.

Hermione snapped closed _Potions in War_ and rubbed her eyes vigorously. It was late, and she was immensely irritated. How frustrating, to do so much research, as she had done, and then not have any materials or workspace with which to actually practice. She had so many new ideas and no way to test them!

Hermione pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders as she climbed the stairs on her way to bed. She walked quickly down the hall, but paused when she saw an odd, green light pulse beneath the door to Professor Snape's bedroom. Taken back to the night of her terrible dream, Hermione was instantly ablaze with curiosity. She thought she had simply imagined the green light before, but here it was again. What _was_ that? Surely Snape knew all magic was forbidden — he had even told her so himself. Repeatedly. And with unwarranted venom.

Hermione's curiosity got the better of her, and after taking a moment to steel her resolve, she tip-toed up and tapped lightly on the door. She held her breath as she heard muted footsteps approach.

"Can I help you?" Snape hissed through the barest crack in the door.

Hermione swallowed hard. "I — er — saw a flash of something underneath your door. Are you doing magic, Professor? Because you told me that–"

"You _are_ a nosey little thing, aren't you?" he snapped. "Of course I'm not doing magic — not with my wand in any case. I was unaware, Granger, that you thought me senile."

Hermione checked the impulse to scoff. "I don't think you're senile. Honestly, I was just…"

Hermione trailed off as, with a roll of his eyes, Snape opened the door about an arm's length to reveal a table at the far end of the room. On top of it sat various items, some small, some large, and right in the middle of them all sat what was unmistakably a steaming, glowing cauldron.

Hermione's jaw fell slack. "You're brewing?" she said excitedly. "What are you making? Where did you get your ingredients?"

Snape made an irritated noise in the back of his throat. "Always bloody questions with you, isn't it? I will answer, but only if you promise that after I do so, you will remove yourself from my doorway and do your utmost to never bother me unnecessarily again — agreed?"

Hermione nodded (though she secretly crossed her fingers behind her back).

Snape folded his arms and spoke in a very flat, snide voice. "Yes, I am brewing. It is a very simple draught, though one which might interest you, Granger, as it is a much more potent rendition of Dreamless Sleep. I assume that you will want a dose for yourself when I've finished — I know _I_ will certainly sleep better without you running around banging on people's doors in the middle of the night and screaming through the halls like a mad woman. As for the ingredients, I requested the Headmaster to owl me some necessities from Hogwarts. As long as he continues to use a different owl each time, he will continue to do so until I have most of my stores returned to me. There are many projects I currently have in progress which require constant attention—as I am sure you recall."

Snape paused and Hermione took this moment to interject anxiously. "So, Dumbledore sent those things to you? Do you think he might be able to do the same for me? Perhaps my notes, for instance — and maybe those new ingredients you ordered — and really, it would be nice to have my own clothes—"

"Merlin's beard, girl, decidedly not! This isn't a resort hotel — you can't send out for every blasted luxury you want. Go to bed, Granger. I have answered your questions, now do as I asked and get out of my sight."

"Maybe just my notes then?" Hermione appealed quickly. "Please, Professor, I have nothing of my own. No classes to go to, or teachers to learn from. Vol…You-Know-Who is out there somewhere, and I'm just sitting around in this stupid cottage doing nothing all day. At least let me attempt something productive." Hermione gazed pleadingly into his hooded eyes, her teeth subconsciously worrying her bottom lip as she tried to interpret his blank stare.

"We'll see," he snapped. And then without another word, he shut the door in her face.

Hermione shrugged. That was a substantially more hopeful reaction than she had been expecting. And anyway, soon she would have a decent night's rest to look forward to, and maybe even a project or two to keep her mind off things.

As Hermione crawled into bed and tried to clear her mind of violent images of the Dark Lord, she couldn't help thinking that prolonged solitude definitely did not agree with her.

At least she had Sirius.

* * *

Much to Hermione's surprise, a day later found her settled into a now very familiar study with every one of her neatly organized notes and an impressive layout of ingredients spread out on the table in front of her. She had just found a book with new information on "quick-heal" spells and she planned to put it to good use.

Her objective was to create a sort of quick-mend-on-the-go sort of potion for an Auror in action. There were a few relatively similar potions already in existence, but they were all limited to a specific illness or injury. What Hermione hoped to create would be, if not more potent, then at least much broader in terms of what was to be healed. It would be malleable—able to adapt to a variety of different needs.

The real key to her theory was the order of phoenix tails that she had finally managed to attain (through Snape of course, and his black market apothecary back channels no doubt, which he was none too happy about using), which she hoped might produce at least a hint of the regenerative properties that were mostly displayed in a phoenix's tears. The tears would have been most useful, but they were a fickle substance and easily spoiled - nearly impossible to combine with other ingredients successfully. And anyway, with the very meager allowance she had been granted to spend on ingredients for her studies, she could hardly afford them.

So Hermione at last found something on which to bend her every thought. The days went by quickly once she had a purpose, and Hermione took bounds and leaps in her ambitious project that she never would have achieved with just her two-hour lesson per week back at Hogwarts.

She was also spared her frequent night horrors (and even the sleepwalking) by Snape's new better-than-standard Dreamless Sleep. She wondered fleetingly what exactly had spurred him into creating such a potion, but she almost immediately shrugged it off as simply another one of his projects. A convenient coincidence.

One afternoon, after a tiresome hour spent studying the effects of powdered thyme and exactly what sorts of temperature and mixing techniques would keep it in a more or less stable condition, Hermione shut her books and shuffled off to the kitchen for tea.

Just as she was passing by the sitting room, she heard Sirius and Snape discussing something quietly. They stopped talking when they caught sight of her through the doorway, though not before she had heard something that instantly piqued her interest.

"Please return to your studies, Miss Granger — this does not concern you."

Hermione glanced at Snape darkly. "Doesn't concern me? I just heard you mention my name. What's going on?"

Sirius gave Snape a meaningful look, who, in return, made an exasperated sound and rolled his eyes as if to say, _Hell if I care what she knows_.

Needing no further encouragement, Sirius hesitatingly went on to explain to Hermione that they had just received word from the Order about new information concerning developments in Voldemort's plans. Arthur Weasley had called together a conference that was to be held the next morning at the Order's new headquarters (no one had dared return to Grimmauld Place after Sirius's narrow escape).

"So, what's the problem?" Hermione replied eagerly. "Is it transportation? Because I know we can't Floo or Apparate — well, unless we walked for a long ways first. Or maybe we could use brooms. But then, of course, I really—"

"Hermione, you're staying."

"—hate to fl — I'm _what_?"

Snape made a loud noise of irritation before Sirius could reply. "You're not invited, Granger, so stop acting like you are. And our problem is not how we are going to get there, but who is going to have to stay behind to babysit you."

Hermione was silent for a moment, Snape's condescending tone still seeming to dig painfully into her head long after he was finished speaking. "Is it because I'm too young?" she said eventually.

"What's that?"

"Am I staying behind because I'm too young, or because I am not trustworthy enough to merit invitation?"

Snape made yet another rather noisy exhalation.

"Don't, Hermione," Sirius said, standing up from his chair and walking towards her with a slightly forced smile on his face. "You know it doesn't have anything to do with trust. We just thought—"

"That I'm too young — yes, great, I understand," Hermione quipped, trying but failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

"No, that's not it," Sirius said, beginning to sound annoyed. "Dumbledore—we _all_—thought that you'd been through enough, and we didn't want to put you in further danger."

Hermione looked over to see Snape sitting with his ankle crossed over his knee, his hands resting casually on the armrests as he looked at the ceiling, his expression just as bored as could be.

Clearly, he didn't give a flying fuck about anything she did.

And that drove Hermione absolutely crazy.

* * *

Sirius could be a real darling sometimes, Hermione thought as she poured herself another shot of firewhiskey and downed it one gulp.

It was very late, and all three of them were sitting by the fire, discussing, of all things, Hermione's "plans" for the future. This discussion was mainly being held between Sirius and Hermione, of course, for Snape had made a particular effort to sit as far away from the two of them as possible in order to avoid being drawn into just such a conversation.

The evening had initially begun with the three of them laying out plans for the next day. Sirius volunteered to stay behind, which greatly disappointed Hermione, as she knew she had just missed her chance to be all alone in a secluded cottage with a man whose enigmatic character she desperately wished to unravel.

When they then attempted to go over how Snape intended to coordinate his departure, Snape had simply growled, "I can _coordinate_ by myself, thank you," and that was the end of the conversation.

But by that time it was already well after dinner, and Sirius was content to simply sit by the fire and ask Hermione about the project she was working on and what she intended to do with herself after Hogwarts.

The reason it had taken so long for them to even begin this discussion in the first place, was mainly because it had taken that long for Hermione to stop sulking in the library. Which was odd, because Hermione did not often take to sulking. But since she had formed her rather one-sided attachment to Snape, it seemed that she had plenty more things than usual to brood over.

In any case, the firewhiskey was Sirius's idea (probably an attempt to smooth over Hermione's ruffled ego and make her feel less like a child — which was completely irritating and insulting, though she accepted it all the same).

"Y'know what I really wann'be?" Hermione said slowly, doing her best to articulate and avoid an embarrassing slur—she had a suspicion that she was not doing so very successfully. Her head felt heavy and sluggish, and the world had a pleasant buzz about it. All the while she watched out of the corner of her eye to see if Snape might actually look up from his book and take a bloody interest in what she was saying. But his face was as blank and impassive as always, and he seemed to be ignoring her effortlessly.

At least Sirius was interested. Raptly attentive, might even be the most accurate way of putting it. Admittedly, if the only other option for company was Snape, Hermione did not blame Sirius for trying to secure a connection with her.

"What's that?" Sirius replied from the seat next to her on the sofa, taking a delicate sip from his glass and stretching his legs out on the ottoman in front of him.

Snape was still not looking up from the damn book in his hands.

"An _Auror_," Hermione enunciated loudly, watching carefully for any sort of reaction on Snape's dark face. She could have sworn she saw his jaw twitch, but that also could have been the firelight throwing deceiving shadows across his cheeks.

"That's ridiculous, Hermione," Sirius exclaimed almost immediately. "You don't want to be an Auror — you'll just get yourself blown up."

Still hoping to goad a reaction from Snape, Hermione went on. "So what," she exclaimed. "I dun' care f'I get blown up — I _wan_ t'get blown up. Least it's a better way to—to _go—_right? Isn't it? Than jus' sitting 'round here all… cozy and safe. Y'know, _growing old_ while other people're out there, and—they, well, fuck it f'they're not fight'n and dyin' to protec' us! You! Me! All 'f us!"

Snape's eyes remained on the pages in front of him when he finally opened his mouth to speak, his voice just as flat and disinterested as always. "You think that now, Granger," he drawled. "But you're too young and impulsive to know what you really want."

Once again, Snape's nonchalant manner infuriated Hermione.

"I do so _know_," she countered loudly. Perhaps a bit too loudly. She was beginning to wonder whether she'd had a bit too much to drink. Instead of pursuing that thought, she simply poured herself another shot and took a big gulp. She wished Snape would drink more—maybe it would loosen him up too.

"As much as I hate to admit it — Snape's sort of right, Hermione. You can't be sure that what you want now is what you're going to want later. A year down the road, you'll be sorry you threw everything away just for a bit of excitement—adventure. You know. After all, you're still only a child…"

Hermione felt her insides ignite with fury and indignation as she saw Snape's little smirk of agreement.

"I'm _not_ a child!" she snapped vehemently, while at the same time contradicting herself by beating her fist against the armrest.

Sirius laughed and Snape gave a small snort.

Hermione's body silently screamed for Snape's attention. She wanted so badly for him to notice her — to look at her the way she looked at him. But he wouldn't even look at her at all!

Then she would just have to _make_ him look.

The alcohol then proceeded to do what it always did best: it made Hermione bold. So, with a foolishly brazen plan forming in her mind, as though by divine inspiration, Hermione turned to look at Sirius, who looked right back with his kind brown eyes. "I am not a child," she repeated, this time in a very different tone.

Before she could change her mind, before she could even begin to wonder what the repercussions might be, Hermione leaned over and ran one hand up Sirius's thigh and the other through his hair. She moved in towards him, making it painfully obvious just what she intended to do. Sirius's mouth opened wordlessly to say something, and he made a very half-hearted attempt at pulling away, but before he could get out a single word, there was a roar of anger from across the room. Suddenly, Snape grabbed Hermione's arm and tore her away from Sirius.

"WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING!" he spat, eyes ignited with fury, boring into hers.

Hermione just smiled loopily back at him, wildly happy that she had at last secured his attention — though now that she had it, she wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

Snape whipped his furious glare in Sirius's direction. "How long has this been going on!"

Sirius looked baffled out of his mind. "I — er — about two seconds — Calm down, Snape — Her-Hermione's obviously had a bit too much to drink…"

And then, as if to prove exactly that, Hermione turned and threw up all over the carpet, narrowly avoiding the tops of Snape's shoes.

Sirius leapt forward to steady her. "Okay, Hermione — I think it's time I took you back to your room."

Snape swatted Sirius's arm away. "No you don't, Black," he hissed. "_I'll_ do the honors — you stay here!" Then he added in a dark, chilly tone, "You and I are going to have a talk."

That said, Snape reached out and grabbed Hermione by both elbows, leading her stumbling and swaying, towards the stairs.

"Nothing's happened — I swear!" Sirius called after them. "Hermione, tell him! I never—"

Hermione, unphased by her recent vomiting, and still giddy from seeing what she had recklessly convinced herself was mad jealousy from Snape, turned to clumsily blow Sirius a kiss. _My, I make a brazen drunk_, she thought hazily.

Hermione looked up, expecting to see an outrageous reaction from Snape, but his face merely hardened into his customary blank mask, his iron grip on her arms tightening even further as he led her relentlessly on up the stairs.

Despite what her wildly imaginative mind had hoped for, Snape merely dumped Hermione off at her room with a snide, nasty comment, and then turned right back around and strode off down the hallway.

It wasn't until Hermione was tucked away in her bed and caught the sound of yelling from downstairs, she observed that giving Snape and Sirius yet another reason to fight probably wasn't the smartest thing she'd done in her life.

Before she could pursue the thought any farther, she fell dead asleep.

* * *

Hermione woke the next morning with a blistering headache.

She squinted her eyes against the sun pouring in through her open drapes and turned her mind back on exactly what had happened last night. She didn't remember much. The best she could dredge up from the recesses of her mind was that Snape and Sirius had both been called off to an Order meeting this morning, and that she, regretfully, was uninvited.

Yet again donning the same pink sundress that she had been wearing for the past week (the repetition felt reassuring, almost—like having a uniform, like she was back at school), Hermione splashed some water on her face, ran a hand through her hair to tame it as best she could, and then went downstairs in search of breakfast.

She walked into the little dinning room and found, to her utmost surprise, none other than Severus Snape, sitting quietly at the table with a cup of steaming coffee in his hand and a crumpled newspaper spread out in front of him.

What in the world was _he_ doing here?

* * *

Severus glanced up from _The Daily Prophet_ he had just received by owl from Dumbledore early that morning, and scowled at the sight of that same stupid dress she had worn every day since their arrival.

"What time is it?" Granger demanded sharply (clearly she was not the sort of person who coped well with a hangover). "Weren't the two of you supposed to have left already?"

Severus sneered. "Black left. I stayed to mind the infant."

The girl actually had the nerve to roll her eyes. "Oh, yes, I forgot how incompetent you think I am."

"Incompetent does not even begin to describe what I _think you are_," he responded irritably. "After your actions last night, _revolting_ might be more on target." Severus smirked in anticipation of the reaction he was sure of have goaded with that remark.

To his surprise, however, she did not explode with anger, but merely plagued him with more questions.

"What actions?" she asked, sounding a bit shrill. "What happened last night? And why did _you_ stay? I thought you were supposed to be gone. Why couldn't Sirius stay?"

That last comment had been unexpected; despite himself, Severus felt stung. He had become used to Granger's quiet (albeit visibly offended) acceptance of his remarks. He was not prepared when she went on the offensive like that.

"I should not have to explain myself to you," he snapped. "And the fact that you cannot even remember what happened last night simply proves my point."

Her little brown eyes narrowed and she put her hands on her hips in an annoyingly defiant Gryffindor-like way. "Fine then, don't tell me," she seethed. "I'll just make my breakfast and then _get out of your sight_, shall I?"

"How thoughtful," Severus drawled in return, flicking open his paper again. Though instead of looking down at the page, he found himself following Granger's sleep-mussed, disgruntled figure as she stormed off into the kitchen. He noticed with pride how she appeared to be infinitely more red in the face than she had been when she first entered the room.

Severus turned hurriedly back to the paper when a ridiculous notion came randomly butting into his brain.

As much as he ordered the girl out of his sight all the time, he certainly did seem to watch her more often than was necessary.

* * *

Hermione Granger could no longer deny the fact that there was something unequivocally and undeniably wrong with her.

She was absolutely furious with the man, hurt and offended by just about everything that came out of his mouth — and not at all attracted to the way he hadn't seemed to once wash his hair since they had arrived — but yet here she was, hiding out behind an enormous crate of dusty wine bottles, in the basement, in the vain hope that she might be able to catch a glimpse of him at the piano.

She had so many better things to do. There were plenty of subjects to study, ingredients to prepare, research to be done. Sirius was gone for who knew how long, or what sort of danger he was in, and _this_ was how she spent her time?

She was disgusted with herself, yet her curiosity was eating away at her like mad. And, to be quite honest, she was a little burned out on her studies. She felt reckless. Defiant. Entitled. She felt that Snape owed her this in some way. She deserved to invade his privacy. Not to mention, she had a very hard time believing the images in her head of Severus Snape "expressing" himself through anything other than a cold sneer and a pithy insult—despite what Sirius had said to the contrary. Could there honestly be another side to him? She had always assumed that there was, but the idea of actually seeing this side seemed like the most impossible—

All thoughts were instantly whisked out of her head as Hermione heard the basement door open and the steady thunk of Snape's footsteps on the stairs. She scrunched herself as small as she could behind the moldy crate, and watched through a tiny crack between the boxes.

Snape went straight to the piano, carefully opened the lid covering the ancient black and white keys, sat down on the bench, and then simply stared at his folded hands. He sat just like that for what seemed like ages, his eyes wide open as though he were staring right through to the floor, deep in thought. Hermione watched curiously as time passed and he remained motionless, still as a statue, simply breathing in and out, every so often blinking slowly.

Finally, after several long, silent minutes, Snape shook his head, snapped out of whatever reverie he had been in, and turned to the piano.

At first, he simply rested his long pale hands on the keys — like white spiders waiting to pounce. Then, in a moment, he began to play, soft and low, almost like a lullaby.

Hermione was beside herself with fascination. His eyes were not narrowed in concentration like she had imagined they would be, but closed. The lines on his face were eased like she had never seen them before, and his mouth was soft and relaxed, instead of hardened into his usual cruel sneer. The entire length of his back seemed to melt out of its rigidness, forming a gradual sort of arch that followed all the way through his neck.

Slowly the melody began to change — growing louder and faster. Hermione propped herself up into a rudimentary crouch, craning her neck around the boxes as far as she could, entranced by the way his hands danced effortlessly across the keys, and the way his foot kept perfect time on the pedal.

The song continued to build, churning faster and faster, picking up momentum, and Hermione leaned farther and farther over, until, quite suddenly, her foot slipped, she face-planted into a rather precariously placed crate, and twenty wine bottles fell crashing to the floor.

There was a blindly terrifying moment of silence while Hermione lay sprawled ungracefully in a growing pool of red liquid, and Snape simply stared back at her with a slack, disbelieving look on his face.

Finally, Hermione scrambled to her feet, her limbs flying every which way on the slippery surface. "So sorry — terribly sorry," she stammered, inching her way towards the door. "I was just — I mean to say — I was looking for… I was looking for… er — anyway, I found it — and — er — I'll just… I'll just be going now — so sorry to disturb you—" Without a backwards glance, Hermione hurried up the stairs, out the door, and ran as fast as she could up to her room, where she threw herself, still sopping wet with wine, face down onto her bed.

She groaned.

Oh, hell.

Death Eaters be damned. Snape was going to kill her first.

* * *

Severus crumpled up the letter and threw it into the fire.

He had fought it, and fought it, but there was nothing more he could do and he had finally been worn down. As usual, he would simply have to give in and do as the Headmaster requested.

Almost since their first conversation outside The Sleep Inn, Dumbledore had insisted that Severus do his best to teach Hermione Occlumency. She knew too much; if she were captured (which was now a very likely possibility), she would be putting everyone in danger.

Rather put-off by his latest experience teaching that particular subject, Severus had flatly refused each time the idea was brought up. But Dumbledore knew what he was doing, and when he wanted something, he almost always got his way. Severus knew that all those "deliveries" (e.g. his notes, his quills, his ingredients, his cauldron, etc.) would not be free, and now Dumbledore had finally named his price.

Severus growled and gave the ottoman an irritable kick.

On the bright side, at least the girl wasn't as dumb as a brick like Potter—though her actions of late had done nothing to support this idea. Severus had spent a long time in quiet reflection down in the basement as he watched a dirty rag appear from thin air and mop up Granger's mess (there had been a series of rather convenient automatic cleaning spells installed in the house).

What in the world had she been doing down there? _Spying_ on him? Severus's stomach churned at the thought of being caught with his defenses down like that. Piano had always been his one indulgence, really.

It was one of the many things of which his father had never approved, and it was the one thing that Severus had always managed to keep from him. As a child, music lessons had been his and his mother's little secret — even after that night she had slapped him, his mother never told.

Now, as a grown man, with both his parents long dead, and with nothing of real value in his life to covet, Severus found a peculiar comfort in the music he created. It was the only beautiful thing that truly belonged to him, and he never liked to share it with anyone but himself.

Damn that _stupid_ girl. Why did she have to go snooping around all the time? Why couldn't she just mind her own business? And what the _bloody hell_ had she been thinking when she was down there?

Severus stood from his chair and stormed off towards the study in which Granger so often hid.

The only potential good to come from these ridiculous Occlumency lessons, was perhaps an opportunity to finally find out exactly what was going on in that deranged little head of hers.

* * *

_Damn, damn, damn._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

How did these things always seem to happen to her?

Hermione was terrified out of her mind, as she stood rooted to the spot in the largest of the sitting rooms on the first floor of Pruitt cottage. Rain lashed against the windowed double doors to her right, and she cringed at the ominous rumble of thunder.

Snape stood exactly opposite from her, his hands at his sides, his black hooded eyes staring directly into hers.

"Normally," he said at last, startling Hermione into jumping slightly, "magic of this magnitude is performed with a wand. But, as I am not allowed to use one…" Snape held a hand out in front of him, subtly, as though he were trying to find his balance. Yet he was sturdy as a rock.

Hermione felt her knees begin to tremble.

How did she let herself get into this? Of all the people in the world she could choose to be poking around inside her brain, suffice it to say, Snape was not top on that list.

But he had been so _angry_ with her for spying on him. So angry about being forced into giving her these lessons; she didn't dare say no to anything he asked.

"Prepare yourself," Snape hissed.

Hermione sucked in a shuddering breath and attempted her very best to clear her mind of all incriminating thoughts. She continued to brace herself as the seconds ticked by. Soon, she began to wonder if Snape intended to do anything at all, and then, out of nowhere, Snape's hand jerked, he said, "_Legilimens_," and Hermione's unprepared mind exploded into a flurry of images: A bright red bicycle sitting under the Christmas tree as Hermione's tiny fingers grasped th handle bars; the sight of her grandmother lying cold and still in her hospital bed with a whining monitor looming overhead; her mother's smiling face as she gave Hermione's hand a squeeze through the window of the Hogwarts Express—

"Enough."

Hermione fell to her knees, her whole body shaking and her palms damp with sweat.

"Get up and try again," Snape said.

Hermione nodded and got to her feet.

Snape leveled his harsh gaze on her once more. "Clear your mind — it's not that difficult, Granger, I assure you. _Legilimens_."

She was at school now, walking into the Hogwarts library for the first time with her mouth gaping open in wonder; now she was arguing with the Sorting Hat, Ravenclaw or Gryffindor? Ravenclaw or Gryffindor? Gryffindor! Gryffindor!; now she was at home in the kitchen watching her mother throw expensive china against the wall—there was a note on the counter, and just as Hermione picked it up and began to read…

"No!" She wrenched her mind out of Snape's grasp, wobbling dangerously on her feet as she did so, but did not fall over this time.

"At least you're trying now," Snape growled, with a surprising hint of approval in his voice. Thankfully he made no comment about the last memory, curious though he undoubtedly was.

It was the night her uncle had taken his life. That note had been meant for Hermione's mother and only her mother, but, young as she was, Hermione had read it anyway. She truly wished she hadn't, but she had, and eventually she'd more or less made peace with her blunder. It was very difficult, however, to remember that peace when Snape could pluck the memory right out of the back of her mind.

"_Legilimens!_"

Then, all of Hermione's memories were about Snape: The first time she saw him as he banged open the classroom doors and came swirling in with his ominous black attire; that horrible thud as he slammed against the wall in the Shrieking Shack when she, Harry, and Ron had simultaneously hexed him in their Third Year; the time he had looked at her magically enlarged teeth and sneered, "I see no difference."—

Again, Hermione managed to wrench herself free. She shook her head groggily.

"Good, Miss Granger," Snape said, giving her a critical eye. "You have managed to narrow your thoughts down to one subject — your attacker. Now try to wipe them away entirely."

Hermione nodded determinedly, but she had the sneaking suspicion that the fact that Snape happened to be her attacker was only coincidence. Her defenses were growing weaker, not stronger, and the things she most wanted to keep secret were now bubbling to the surface of her mind. Surely it was only going to get worse now. She was tired, her head ached from the effort of resisting his attacks, and she definitely did not like where her memories were headed…

Before Hermione could begin to gather herself again, Snape shouted, "_Legilimens_!" and her mind flashed once again with image after image of her dark, stoic Professor: She was watching him out of the corner of her eye during their lessons, studying the arch of his hand, the fall of his hair, the curve in his neck; then she was back on the plane to Switzerland, and the brief touch of Snape's hand had her glowing warmly in her seat; now she was whispering his name into her pillow at night, just to know what it sounded like, touching herself, thinking of him; now she was sitting on his lap and leaning down to kiss him in her dream; now she was talking quietly to Crookshanks, all alone in her dorm, "Is it mad? I want him. It's bloody mad, I know it, but I want him! I _want_ him!"

Immediately, the images stopped. She didn't know who had stopped them, but both she and the Professor staggered backwards out of the encounter, shocked and out of breath.

Snape's eyes were wide with horror, his mouth gaping slightly open.

"Oh no," Hermione moaned. "Nonono." She had done it. That was it. He knew. He knew _everything_. Before Snape could say a single word, Hermione turned, made as though to run for the hallway - but Snape stepped to the side and blocked her path - so she turned again, too frightened to remain indoors, too upset to be with him beneath the same roof. She took three swift footsteps in the opposite direction, threw open a set of windowed doors, and bolted as fast as she could outside into the freezing, pouring rain. She couldn't stand the way he was looking at her for one moment longer.

She ran with no direction, desperate to put as much distance between her and the house as possible, so on fire with embarrassment, and righteous fury, and she didn't even know what else. Eventually, she reached the beginnings of the surrounding forest and she hid behind a tree, leaning her back heavily against the trunk and burying her face in her hands. _H__ow did everything become such a mess?_ she thought miserably as she sank to the ground.

Hermione did not look up when she heard hurried footsteps approach.

The footsteps slowed as they got nearer, and eventually stopped altogether no more than three feet in front of her.

There was a short silence. Still Hermione did not look up.

"You are not allowed to be here," Snape said finally, his voice hard and thick with an emotion that Hermione could not quite interpret.

"I know," she replied quietly.

Another long silence followed.

"What…" Snape began to say, but trailed off. His voice became dangerously quiet. "Was that supposed to be a joke?" he said, the tremulous anger behind his words impossible to mistake.

Hermione looked up sharply, finally meeting his dark eyes — ones that were heavy-lidded and mostly shaded, but still roiling with emotion. His stoic mask had broken slightly, and she could see a glimpse of something underneath it.

Hermione took a moment to steel herself before replying. "No," she said firmly. "No, it was not a _joke_. Personally, I do not find matters like this very funny."

There was another significant pause.

"Neither do I," Snape replied, his voice still rocky and strange. He did not continue, and it was obvious that he was waiting for her to say something.

Overwhelmed and frightened by the tumult of feelings welling up inside her, Hermione simply got to her feet and turned to leave. "I'm h-hungry," she stammered, shivering from more than just the frigid air.

"I expect an explanation from you, Granger," Snape called after her as she once again walked out into the pouring, icy rain, sheets and sheets of it slamming into her in waves, soaking her through in an instant.

She let out a short, bitter laugh. "An explanation?" she repeated loudly, turning to find him following close at her back. She was embarrassed to feel stinging tears begin to prick beneath her eyes. "I wish I had one to give you, Professor!" She threw her arms up in defeat. "But I don't! I've been trying to find one for what seems like years, but you know what? I give up! The feeling's there! It happened! I don't know how, but it did, and there's nothing I can do about it!"

Snape's eyebrows drew together and his face flushed with anger. Water plastered his dark hair to his forehead and ran in a steady stream down his chin and off the tip of his nose. "This is—" he sputtered. "This is ludicrous — and — inappropriate — and — AND I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS FOOLISHNESS!"

_Foolishness_? Anger positively exploded inside Hermione's chest and, with a wail of rage, she reached out and slapped the unsuspecting Snape full across the face.

"YOU IMPOSSIBLE, UNFEELING, HORRID, NASTY, _HATEFUL_ MAN!" she shrieked as she threw herself at him, hitting him, pushing him, Snape's shocked body making minimal efforts to parry her blows. "I WANT YOU! DAMMIT ALL I'VE SAID IT NOW AND I'M SORRY IF YOU HATE ME, BUT THERE'S NOTHING I CAN BLOODY DO ABOUT IT SO PLEASE GOD JESUS GOD JUST BUGGER OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!"

With one last shove, Hermione turned and stormed back towards the cottage, trying so hard to contain her sobs that she felt like her heart was going to split down the middle.

She did not get very far.

It all happened very fast:

Hermione heard the sound of Snape's footsteps running up behind her, then the feeling of a warm hand snatching her wrist, yanking her back, whirling around. Snape looked down into her misty eyes with his own wide and blazing, growled, "It's not that easy, Granger," and then slammed his lips into hers.

The utter shock of what was happening jarred her momentarily, and then, an instant later, sank Hermione's world into a thick, heavy haze. It was all so surreal, unimaginable. Instinct took over. She arched into the kiss, pressing her body up against Snape's, hungry for the heat that poured from him through their wet clothes and into her skin—her thighs and her hips, her chest. Snape's hand was on the small of her back, strong and demanding, encouraging her, pressing her more firmly against him.

Hermione opened her mouth to his tongue, hot against her own. She snaked her arms up his chest and wrapped them around his neck, her fingers sliding smoothly into the wet, velvety locks on the back of his head. His hand on her back clenched convulsively, pulling at the drenched fabric of her dress. He made a small groan against her mouth as she deepened the kiss, pulling her hands slowly through his hair.

The tip of Hermione's thumb brushed a fine, golden strand at his temple, _largitio_, and a sudden jolt of electricity zapped them both. The shock instantly seemed to bring Snape back to his senses.

The haze disappeared. Snape leapt away, pushing her backwards, his eyes once again wide and unblinking, his breathing heavy, ragged.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, still staggering backwards. "I — I don't know what came over me."

Hermione moved towards him, but he jerked back again sharply.

"I — You—" he started again. Then he took a shuddering breath, seeming to gather himself at last.

Hermione felt her heart clench as she saw that blank, expressionless mask once again smooth over the contours of Snape's face.

"Return to the house, Miss Granger," he said in a level, toneless voice, though it appeared to cost him an immense effort. "As I have told you. You should not be outside."

"What? But _you're_ outside! I want to–"

Snape's expression changed into one of terrifying anger and he seemed in that moment to become extraordinarily tall. "DO AS I SAY, GRANGER!" he roared. "GET BACK INSIDE! _NOW_!"

Hermione did as she was told.


	15. Finding The Answer

A/N: Hello again lovely readers! Here we go, post DH (SO AMAZING YES WOW AHHHH), with a chapter that has been a damn long time in coming!

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

That night, as Hermione lay awake in bed, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, two thoughts were battling for attention at the front of her mind. One of them obviously revolved around the events of that afternoon: The Occlumency lessons. Her violent confession. The kiss. Her other thoughts, however, were focused on Sirius — and where he could possibly be. They had received an owl earlier that evening informing them that "Snuffles" would be delayed for a few days, but, in the event that the owl might be intercepted, no other details had been disclosed.

He had been "delayed" — what did that mean exactly? She knew the informant had to be someone friendly to Sirius, or else they never would have known to call him Snuffles. Yet, something did not sit quite right with Hermione. Something was going on...

Then an image of a rain-drenched Snape flashed into her mind, and all of Hermione's thoughts turned back to that afternoon. He had kissed her. Severus Snape had voluntarily kissed her, and it had been a gooood kiss — the kind with extra o's. The moment it had happened, his arm around her body, crushing her against him, she had thought for certain that it meant he returned her feelings. He _must_. After all, there was no way he could be in any doubt over how she felt about him (she was pretty sure she had made that painfully clear). But then he had pushed her away. He had sent her back inside with a furious and — dare she say it — disgusted look on his face.

Hermione had promptly returned to the library, sopping wet, nearly in tears, and sat in a chair by the fire for the rest of the day, reading, thinking, waiting for him to come to her and explain himself. She believed in confrontation for the most part, and any other time, she would have been the one to seek out resolution - but this was his responsibility. He had taken impulsive action. He was the one making fools out of both of them and it was his job to fix it. But he never did. He only popped his head in once to toss the letter about Sirius on the floor, and then exited the room without saying a word or so much as meeting her eyes. What did all of that mean? She didn't understand! Nothing about this man made any sense at all. _Delusional, righteous, self-important bastard_.

At last, knowing that she was never going to fall asleep with this many emotions roiling around inside her, Hermione got up and shuffled down to the kitchen for a glass of water. She passed by the sitting room and noticed that the light was on — was he still up? Taking a deep breath, swallowing hard, Hermione opened the door and went inside.

Just as she had expected, Snape was there. He sat on a sofa by the fire, reading a book and drinking a cup of tea. As usual.

After a pause, Hermione spoke. "Don't you ever sleep?" she asked quietly from the doorway.

Snape looked up, his expression blank. "Seeing as you are up and about at three in the morning, perhaps I should ask you the same question."

"I was thirsty," she replied.

An uncomfortable silence settled over them, and, watching carefully for any signs of a reaction — any reaction at all — Hermione slowly approached the sofa.

Snape watched her out of the corner of his eye, but said nothing.

She cleared her throat. "May I?" she asked, motioning to the vacant seat at his side.

Snape rolled his eyes. "Assuming that no matter what I say, you will be joining me anyway — please, Miss Granger, by all means."

Hermione sat. The silence was deafening.

"I wanted…" she started hesitantly. "I wanted to talk to you about… about this afternoon."

He glanced at his watch. "Yesterday afternoon," he corrected, his gaze once more turning to the pages in front of him.

"Fine, yesterday, whatever. I just… Well, I don't… I mean, obviously—It all happened so fast… I—"

Snape closed his book with a snap and heaved a long, troubled sigh, rubbing his temples tiredly. "Listen, Miss Granger," he began in what sounded like a depressingly formal tone (though admittedly strained). "I suppose I ought to first — apologize — for… for my actions yesterday. They were grossly inappropriate and… unethical, I suppose, is the best way to put it. Such misconduct will never happen again, I assure you."

Hermione opened her mouth to interject, but Snape held up a hand.

"I am very decidedly the adult in this house, which means... subsequently, that means that all responsibility lies upon my shoulders to... I should not have — I mean to say, I _should_ have… I should have put a stop to it."

Hermione couldn't help herself. "But you did put a stop to it."

Snape's eyes narrowed and he threw her an irritated look. "Yes, I did," he quipped. "I suppose what I really mean, is that I should not have initiated it in the first place. This is my fault, and I own to that entirely. The last thing I want is for you to get the wrong idea."

Hermione frowned. "And what idea would that be?"

Snape shook his head and turned away from her, waving his hand in dismissal. "Just retrieve your water and return to bed, Granger. This discussion is over."

"No, it's not over," Hermione said firmly. "I want to finish talking about this."

Snape scoffed. "You — wanting to talk? What a staggering revelation."

With a familiar anger welling up inside her, Hermione drew back feeling stung. "I'm just trying to work things out, you don't have to be nasty about it."

Hermione jumped as Snape turned suddenly to face her, throwing his book down on the coffee table with a loud thud as he did so.

"Yes, I do," he spat. "Of course I do! How can you be so obstinately deranged. _That's_ the way I am. No smokes and mirrors — this is me, Granger, and you've bloody well been my student long enough to comprehend all that that entails. I am _not_ going to change my very nature simply because we've been holed up together in some sodding cottage for a month." His lips drew back in an angry sneer. "Just because I had a… momentary lapse in judgment… that does not mean that I am suddenly going to be spouting sonnets." He gave her a hard look. "I am not a nice man, Granger. The sooner you manage to get this idea through that thick head of yours, the better."

Hermione closed her eyes and took a calming breath. "No. You are not a nice man," she agreed quietly. "But you are a _good_ man."

Snape did not seem to be able to process her reply for several seconds; his face was curiously slack. Then he snapped back to attention, and his features once again contorted with rage. "You don't know the first thing about me, you foolish girl," he hissed.

"I would, if you would tell me," she countered boldly.

"I have absolutely no intention, nor obligation, to do any such thing. If you knew even half the things I'd done, if you knew the person I was. You couldn't possibly imagine–"

"You've _done_, you _were_ — all of those things are in the past." Hermione squared her shoulders and looked at him with a steady gaze that dared him to oppose her. "You're a different person now."

Snape scoffed again. "You are nauseatingly _naïve_, Granger — I'm no different. I am exactly the same person I was and always have been. You seem to think this is some sort of fairy tale. You've conjured up this foolish fantasy in your head — as though I am, of all things, a poor lost soul who simply needs your purity, your guidance and love to steer me in the right direction.  
"Well, wake up!" he barked. "This isn't a game, and you don't know what you're playing at."

The entire house was quiet save for the crackling flames. Hermione sat there on the couch, her mind running around in circles, searching furiously, blindly, to find a way to convince this man in front of her that what she was saying _meant_ something. That what he had done _meant_ something.

"Why did you kiss me?" she asked.

"No. No more. I don't want to talk about this anymore. Go away."

"Why did you kiss me?" she repeated.

Snape's nostrils flared and his eyes widened in anger. "I tell you this conversation is over!" he roared. "Now _get out._"

Hermione's mind came to a split-second decision and right then and there she decided to take her stand. "No," she said defiantly, and was proud of the way that Snape's jaw fell open in surprise. "I'm not frightened, Professor," she continued. "We are not at school, I am not a naughty student out of bed, and you can't give me detention or take away House points. I want to have my say, I've earned it, and I will have it whether you decide to listen or not."

Snape seemed to have a moment of indecision then as well — as though he were trying to figure out in his mind the best way to throttle the life out of her. The look on his face was murderous.

But Hermione did not waver, even for an instant. She knew that this was probably the only chance she would have, and she wanted to take full advantage.

"I don't have to sit here for this," Snape finally spat, and stood.

Hermione leapt up, her heart blazing with fury, her voice shrill. "Honestly, you're acting like such a child!"

Snape gaped at her, looking aghast. "A—a ch—"

"Yes — a _child._" Hermione resisted the impulse to stamp her foot. "For whatever reason, Professor, this afternoon — yesterday afternoon — whenever it bloody fucking was — you kissed me. You, knowing full well what my feelings are towards you — having seen and felt them yourself — grabbed me, kissed me, and then pushed me away without a single explanation. Now here I am and it's time for you to take responsibility for what you've done. Ordering me out of your sight will do nothing but provoke this situation further — I'm not just going to _go away_ — and I refuse to be ignored any longer. I am a human being, one whom you have sorely abused, and the least I deserve from you is your blasted _attention_!"

Snape had been silent throughout her brief tirade, and continued to remain so for a long time afterwards, staring at her with an unfathomable expression.

Oh, how Hermione wished she could know what was going on inside that tightly guarded mind of his.

Finally, Snape spoke. "You are... uncharacteristically correct, in this regard, Miss Granger," he said in a slow, even voice, his jaw clenching and unclenching like mad. "You deserve an answer. Unfortunately, I do not have an answer to give."

Hermione was briefly thrown off by the sincerity of his reaction, but she kept her gaze trained and steady, wanting to preserve whatever effect her words seemed to have had upon him. "Try," she replied softly.

The lines on his face hardened. "I don't know," he said. "I don't know why I did it."

"Did what?"

"You know perfectly _well_ what!" he snapped viciously.

"Yes, but I want to hear you say it."

Snape's mouth twitched, the firelight casting flickering shadows across his face in addition to setting the golden lock of hair at his temple aglow. "I don't know why I _kissed you_," he hissed at last. "And anyway, if I remember correctly, you didn't seem to have many answers yourself — so why then should _I_ be the only one under such scrutiny?"

Hermione's lips thinned. "I did not act on _my_ feelings, Professor. You did."

"You haven't the first idea what I acted on, foolish girl," he snapped, clearly provoked by the implication that what he had done was out of the _feelings_ he presumably had for her.

"Neither do you, apparently."

At that, the furious spark of anger and indignation seemed to fade from Snape's eyes and he sank back down onto the sofa, deflated, almost defeated. "What do you want from me?" he asked faintly.

Hermione tentatively resumed her seat at his side. "Isn't it obvious?"

"_Why_?" Snape growled, his elbows on his knees, hands cradling his head. His eyes were closed as though even the dim light of the fire was too bright. "Why do you want…"

"Yes, Professor. You. You, Goddamn it all, I want _you_."

_There_, Hermione thought. All of her cards were officially on the table. The question was — what was Snape going to do?

In reply, Snape simply gave a deep, impatient sigh. "As proven countless times in recent past, you are far too young, far too reckless and stupid — you don't have the first idea what—"

Hermione nearly leapt up from her seat again in indignation. "Don't you _dare_ pull that on me again," she interrupted shrilly. "I know what I want. I'm young, so what! I know what I want, and I'm quite certain I know what you want — even if you are too stubborn and insecure to admit it."

"_Excuse_ me?" Snape made no effort to hide the appalled and thunderstruck look on his face.

"Admit it," she continued more boldly than she felt. "Even if you don't consciously acknowledge it yourself, some part of you must know… must want…" Hermione took a deep breath. "I'm not going to ask you to 'look me in the eye and tell me that you don't feel something for me,' because I know you would just lie…"

Snape opened his mouth to interrupt, but Hermione threw out her hand and grasped his knee in a tight, demanding grip. The shock of sudden contact seemed to instantly silence him.

Hermione looked Snape squarely in the eyes and willed her voice to remain steady. "But I do ask you to believe me when I say that my feelings for you are genuine. I am _not_ too young to realize when I care for someone in a certain way." She gave Snape a pointed look. "Clearly, there is no age limitation on that particular grain of ignorance."

Even as the words left her mouth, Hermione could not believe what she was saying. She had never seen this side of herself before and it scared her a bit. Her entire body was trembling with anxiety and apprehension — absolutely quivering at the thought of what must be going on behind those cold clever eyes that were now staring directly into hers.

Then Snape looked away, shaking his head. "This is ludicrous," he finally said.

Hermione felt her heart plummet. "Is that really all you can say?"

"Yes, at the moment!" Snape snapped back. "What did you expect? It's a rather complicated situation, isn't it? And why don't we put _you_ under the wandlight for a moment, shall we! You still have your fair share of explaining to do and _responsibility_ to claim. As I remember, you did your fair share of… of _it_ too."

"What — kissing?" Hermione wound a lock of hair through her fingers in an attempt to give her trembling hands something to do. "I suppose you're right, but you can hardly blame me. After all, I thought that you… that you felt—"

"Well, you thought wrong, didn't you?"

Hermione caught Snape's eyes again and gave him a long hard look, searching furiously for a sign of what she _knew_ was in there. "Did I?" she asked breathlessly, hardly daring to hope…

For once, Snape opened his mouth and seemed to falter. He paused for a significant amount of time, his eyes every second or so, flicking down to where her hand still rested on his knee.

Hermione's apprehension was so great that she felt as though the very world had stopped. Her ears were ringing with the oppressive, almost tangible silence, and she found herself holding her breath.

"No," Snape replied at last. "No, you were not… entirely mistaken."

A floodgate opened and Hermione felt an enormous smile burst out upon her face. Her sudden rush of relief and giddiness swept every feeling of spite or betrayal she had ever felt for this man from her mind. She forgave him for everything, every hurt he had ever caused her — just as long as he didn't deny her the one thing that she had for so long thought unattainable. At last! There it was, Snape all but confessed that he felt something for her too, and who would have ever thought? She never in her wildest dreams—

But Snape was not returning her smile.

Before Hermione could say a word, Snape wrenched his knee out of her grasp.

"I meant what I said before, Miss Granger," he stated, his voice once again toneless and tightly controlled. "I do not intend for what transpired yesterday to ever happen again."

Hermione's face fell. The waves of happiness that had just previously been crashing through her body died out, disappearing just as suddenly as they had come.

"What you and I, what you… _feel_—" Snape spat the word as though disgusted by the taste of it "—is neither here nor there. Despite your juvenile, albeit avid, argument that you are 'not too young' to dupe yourself into believing that what is undoubtedly nothing more than a brief savior-induced infatuation, is a real and true, noteworthy attraction… those feelings are irrelevant."

"_Irrelevant_?" Hermione all but shrieked, a very different sort of feeling now ringing in her ears.

"Lest you forget," Snape continued, as though he had not been interrupted, "I am still your Professor, and you are still my student. I refuse to cross that line, Miss Granger. I respect the Headmaster far too much to disregard his authority on such a level—on any level, for that matter."

In the past, Hermione had tried to avoid thinking about this particular obstacle, always loathe to break the rules — and especially ones of such a serious nature. She had not been prepared for this one to be so suddenly flung in her face like that.

Yet, as she considered it, there was a silver lining… Was he implying that this was the only obstacle holding him back? Was this silly little rule the only reason Snape denied her? Hermione's flare of anger began to fade again in the face of this realization. She took a moment to look around the golden, fire-lit cottage, pausing for a long time at the sight of the mountain peaks glinting palely in the distance outside the enormous window. "You know," she said at last, slowly. "I'm pretty certain that being in _Switzerland_ might render those sorts of rules rather superfluous, don't you think? Honestly, as long as you can't take points and give detentions, what's the benefit of being a Professor anyway?"

Hermione was more than a little surprised by her spontaneous light-hearted tone — as, it was clear, was Snape.

"I…" He cleared his throat, thrown a bit out of sorts. "Even if that were so… there are a plethora of additional reasons why… well, _that_ could not happen."

Hermione crossed her arms. "Oh," she said. "Really? And what, pray tell, are the reasons why _that_ cannot happen?"

Snape made an irritated noise and shook his head as though trying to dislodge a particularly persistent thought. "I can't bloody believe this is happening," he muttered bitterly, and Hermione could see that she was losing him. Her chance was slipping away again.

Snape ran a hand through his shaggy dark hair. "I never should have done that. This is insane. This is—"

"If you say _this is ludicrous_ one more time…"

Snape turned to look at her again, his sneer once more in place. "You'll what? Hex me? Not likely — even if you _were_ allowed to use a wand—"

"STOP IT," Hermione cut him off, her voice hard as steel. "Stop acting like you don't care about what I'm saying — about what _you're_ saying."

Snape's dark eyes were wide and round and he looked sufficiently startled by her unprecedented aggression.

Hermione clenched her fists in an attempt to restrain herself from reaching out and giving him yet another hard slap across the face. "You _said_ — that I was right about you. About the reason why you kissed me." She took a shuddering breath and made sure that she had his full attention before speaking again. "And now you cannot take it back."

The contours of Snape's face eased. His sneer disappeared, his eyebrows fell out of their harsh furrow, and for a split second, Hermione swore she saw a flash of warmth in his normally cold eyes. Once again there was a pregnant pause. Then he spoke. "I do not wish… to take it back," Snape said quietly, the hesitation in his voice making him sound as though he had only just now come to this realization himself.

Hermione felt her expression soften as well. Her heart burst with hope and with pleasure once again at the sound of those words, and for some strange reason she felt the overwhelming impulse to cry (perhaps the constant emotional rollercoaster was beginning to take its toll). However, she did not think tears would be best at that particular moment, so she forced them back and swallowed the lump in her throat — though it made her head spin a little. "So," she said, her voice breaking. She cleared her throat. "So, if you meant what you said. If you do want, you know, that, and I want that, then why can't we have… that?"

Snape turned his gaze to the fire — or what used to be a fire. It was only a mound of brightly glowing coals now. "It would be obscenely inappropriate," he replied again, his voice notably rough. "Bloody hell, the age difference alone…"

"Oh, what does that _matter_." Throwing caution to the wind, Hermione reached out and grasped one of Snape's large hands in both of her own.

He looked at her, a bit startled, but did not pull away.

"Just let it happen," she said.

As soon as the words left Hermione's lips, an amazing thing happened. A great pressure within her was lessened. She felt relieved — amazingly relieved. "Just let it happen," she said again, this time with a bit of a smile, knowing that she had finally found an answer.

Snape's dark eyebrows raised significantly. "Pardon me?"

"I said, let it happen!" Hermione repeated, her smile widening. "This thing between us, whatever it is, how it happened to me, how it happened to you — I can't explain it, _you_ can't explain it. This isn't science, it isn't potions, its life! And we can't control it. So what's the point? You know what I mean? Embrace it, take what you get — cross the bridges when you come to them, I guess. That's all I'm trying to say. Just give it a chance. Just _let it happen_."

Snape rolled his eyes. "I suppose that's you're new slogan then," he growled. "You're not going to make badges are you?"

Oblivious to Snape's sarcasm in the face of her rather loopy, Luna-worthy speech, Hermione found that this new enlightenment was making her head spin, her heart flutter, the corners of her mouth ache from the width of her smile. Without any doubt or hesitation in her mind, she began to move towards the dark, surly man who sat on the edge of the couch.

"Abnormally dim though you are, you do realize, certainly, that I am twice your age," Snape continued to argue, watching warily as Hermione inched closer.

"Barely. So what?" she replied.

Their knees were nearly touching now. _Where is this coming from_? Hermione wondered hazily. An uncontrollable force seemed to have come over her, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. It was a wonderful, lighter-than-air feeling, like being drunk on firewhiskey but without nausea or a lazy tongue.

"So your argument is not valid," Snape replied, a brief twitch of his mouth offering the only proof that he was beginning to get nervous. "I think that's quite a significant 'bridge' right there. I'm old enough to be your father!"

Hermione kept her gaze trained on his as she raised his hand to her mouth and left a soft, light kiss on the back of it. "But you're not," she said.

A sheen of sweat began to form across Snape's forehead. His face was all lines and angles; his eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched, his brows furrowed. "I'm a Death Eater — an _ex_-Death Eater, as you well know, and the Dark Lord is after me — both of us. You have no business being with me — you don't even know the first thing about me, Granger, and—"

Hermione did not falter. "I know about that." She pointed to the golden hair at his temple. "And I know about that." She trailed her fingers over the spot on his forearm where the Dark Mark lay just beneath his sleeve. "And I know about this." Hermione pressed the palm of her small hand against his chest and felt the heartbeat beneath it — one that was currently racing furiously. This heartbeat was Snape's immediate undoing. This heartbeat was something that Snape had no control over, and Hermione knew it.

"No! You — you don't know what—" he stammered, wrenching Hermione's hand away from his chest. "You can't possibly imagine what — what you are asking—"

Hermione's other hand still gripped his in a tight, unrelenting hold. "Oh, no," she said, "I know exactly what I'm asking."

Snape tried to wriggle away from her (as she had now leaned so far over that she was practically on top of him) — but his attempts were feeble at best. Despite himself, Snape was beginning to lose himself in the heady haze of happiness and confidence that now seemed to pour from Hermione Granger's very skin. "This is — this is inappropriate," he continued to stammer forcefully, only half-aware of the words that were actually coming out of his mouth. "And I don't understand why you want this — and — and—"

As easy as that, as easy as though she had done it a thousand times before, Hermione slid neatly onto Snape's lap, her knees straddling his hips and her right hand — the one that still bore a tapered line across the palm — returned to its former place, pressed against his chest. His skin felt pleasantly warm through his shirt, his muscles firm and thrillingly unyielding. "And _you_," she said with a sly smile, "are out of excuses."

Snape opened and closed his mouth several times, grasping desperately for a reply. "You can't want this, Granger, think what you're doing," he said again, his eyes flicking back and forth as he searched her face for a hint of doubt. "Of all the people in the world… I — I have nothing to offer you. I have nothing that you could possibly want…"

"But you do."

"And what is that? Wait — no, don't answer that."

"You know what I want."

"Yes… No… Maybe. At least, I know what you _think_ you want. In any case, it doesn't matter, because even if I did know I certainly don't have any obligation to give it to you—"

"Yes, you do." Hermione raised her eyebrows in a mischievous sort of way. "Carte blanche, Professor. You owe me — whatever I ask, whenever I ask. And I think I'll be cashing that blank check, oh, right now."

"_What_?"

Hermione tilted her head slightly as she restrained a giggle at Snape's bug-eyed expression. "That's right," she said. "I'm naming my price."

"But — but you can't just—" he sputtered. "What you're asking for is nowhere near within the realms of—"

Hermione tried to contrive a look of the purest innocence. "All I want is a kiss," she said, cutting him off with a forced lightness in her voice. "Just one. That's all the check is good for, I suppose."

Snape's eyebrows drew together and he surveyed her warily. "You… what? That's it? That's all you want?"

"Of course that's not all I want, but I can hardly force you to do much more, can I?"

"Well, no, but—"

"If we are going to have a relationship that works, it obviously can't be in the form of _payment_ now, can it? That's not very romantic."

"A _relationship_? But I never—"

"And, to be perfectly honest, I'm convinced that once you've kissed me again, you'll have a much better idea of what your true feelings are."

"My _what_? I really think this is getting out of—"

"Just let it happen, remember! Don't think about it, just let yourself go!"

"—OUT OF CONTROL! AND I TRULY THINK THAT THIS IS—"

Hermione suddenly reached out and grasped both sides of Snape's head, giving him a blazing, passionate look and a rough shake. "Would you just shut up and kiss me already, you stupid fool!"

And a split-second later, he did just that.

Their first kiss, on that rainy afternoon past, had nothing on this one. That one had been passionate and unexpected, but also cautious, unreal, and very short-lived; this one was hungry, raw, deep and desperate. It never seemed to end — mostly because neither of them wanted it to end.

One of Snape's hands grasped Hermione's thigh, while the other buried itself in her hair, caressing the back of her neck, both tender and possessive in the same moment. Hermione could hardly comprehend the feel of him beneath her; so strange, yet perfectly right, wonderful; his strong chest heaving under her hand and his tongue against her own. She gave a little moan as Snape dragged her bottom lip through his teeth.

"To be fair," she gasped between kisses. "I technically — only obligated you — to _one_ kiss."

Snape moved the hand on her thigh, kneading into her muscle, battling the tightness of it as she flexed, moaned, wanting more. "Do you ever shut up?" he growled against her mouth, as he then slid that hand all the way up her leg and around to the base of her spine, setting her whole body aflame with desire in doing so.

"Sorry," she managed to breathe. "I just—" She let out a squeak as Snape wrapped his arm fully around her, lifted her up, and then placed her down on her back against the sofa cushions, his entire body now squarely on top of hers. His weight against her felt so deliciously good. She wrapped her legs around his, pulling their bodies closer.

Snape's mouth moved along her jaw and all the way down her neck, leaving a white-hot trail of kisses behind. He once again sought the skin just above her knee with his hand, and was slowly making his way upwards — the roughness of his palm causing her to give a great, big shiver of anticipation as he went higher, and higher.

But, just as he reached the edge of her nightgown (which had ridden up a significant distance now), he stopped, returned his mouth to hers to give her one last, rough kiss, and then pulled away entirely.

"Wh — what's wrong?" she asked breathlessly. The pit of her stomach still smoldered like molten lava at the feel of his hand against her bare skin.

Snape had to wait a moment before answering — his eyes were alight with what Hermione could only assume was desire (desire for _her_ no less! How odd, how blinding and wonderful!), and his breathing was notably labored. He struggled to compose himself. "It is time for you to go to bed," he said at last in an even voice, with no detectable hint of icy detachment behind his words.

Hermione swallowed, and sat up slowly, careful not to dislodge the light grip he still retained on her knee. "Why?" she said. "I still want to… er… _talk_… some more."

Snape roared with laughter and Hermione's heart leapt at the sight of it. His smile, so rarely used, seemed to take decades off him. He had the hint of a dimple on his right cheek that Hermione had never seen before and his eyes crinkled in such a delightful way that she felt herself wishing he would keep smiling forever. Such a change had come over him. And so sudden. How could she have lived so long without knowing this laugh?

"I'm sure you do," Snape said, still with a chuckle. Then he took a deep breath and straightened his face once again (though he could not hide the new spark of warmth that was simply blazing now from behind his dark eyes). "I believe there have been enough words said tonight. We will finish this discussion in the morning."

He stood then, and Hermione mourned the loss of his closeness.

"What does that mean, exactly?" she asked, getting to her feet as well.

There was no indication of laughter anymore in Snape's face, and Hermione felt a sharp stab of fear at the ease in which he once again pulled on his expressionless mask.

"It means I have a lot to think about," he replied. "As do you."

Hermione nodded warily. "I guess so…"

Snape's face softened slightly again, and Hermione felt her fear lessen. "I do not make rash decisions, Miss Granger. Surely you have gathered as much. There is a great deal I must take into account. Now, for the love of Merlin, girl, go to bed."

"You could call me _Hermione_, you know," Hermione said over her shoulder as she grudgingly made her way towards the door. She knew she would be pushing her luck to argue with him any further. Her carte blanche was no longer useful, and she had no more tricks up her sleeve.

"I will add that to the list of things I need to consider," he replied, as Hermione took one last look at the man of her dreams—quite literally, as of late—and then closed the study door with a quiet but resounding click.**  
**


	16. Letting It Happen

******Chapter Sixteen**

Severus did not sleep a wink that night, his mind stuffed full of far too many thoughts, and far too many doubts. If anything, at least he knew one thing was for certain: In some way, in some, insane, psychotic, bizarre little way, he cared about her. He _cared _for Hermione Granger.

Severus shook his head, still unable to fully comprehend those words in that order. Even in reverse order, it threw him for quite a loop.

How — Why — was she "attracted" to him (in any capacity of that stupid term)? Had he not learned of her infatuation through Legilimency, he never in a thousand years would have believed it to be true. She was so young, and innocent, and pure, and he was, to be frank, entirely the opposite. Old, guilty, and tarnished seemed the more appropriate adjectives. Damaged and unfit for any sort of emotional commitment, let alone an emotional commitment to someone so… fragile? Perhaps fragile was not the correct word. Emotionally fragile, maybe. Or maybe not, fuck it if he knew. There was just something about those wild brown eyes of hers that bespoke of a hidden vulnerability, one that made him feel as though if he held her even the slightest bit too tightly she might shatter into a million pieces in his arms.

That was not to say that he did not think she was strong. On the contrary, though he would die before admitting so, Severus considered her one of the most extraordinary, talented, and courageous witches he had ever known. Albeit noisy and unfathomably irritating.

But she was so _young_. This was the point to which Severus's tired mind repeatedly kept returning. How could she possibly know what she was getting into, what she had started? She hadn't the first idea about him on any conceivable level. Had she somehow gotten it into her head that he was a sort of... tragic hero? If so, she would all too soon be disillusioned of such nonsense. The hero part, in any case. The tragic was dead on.

What exactly did she want? Snape asked himself, his mind racing. A relationship? What kind of relationship? How deep did she intend to go? What did she expect from him in return? Love? Not to be nauseatingly cliché about it, but Severus was not sure he even knew what love was anymore. Or that he had even known it ever at all. He was so used to living his days without it, scorning the very idea of it. And despite these new and frighteningly overwhelming impulses he had towards the girl, these impulses did not, in his book, suggest love. They suggested lust, want, a desire for things he had so long been denied — but not love. Attraction maybe. Just a little.

Then again, if given more time, could his feelings perhaps develop into something different? Or would they simply disappear all together? How could he know?

The only thing Severus did know, in complete sincerity, was that he had no wish, nor intention, of hurting her… necessarily. Yet he could not help feeling that his inadequacies, his cultivated (and therefore firmly imprinted) indifference, would do precisely that. He couldn't help but feel that this dark thing inside him, the writhing tendrils of guilt and torment that gripped his chest and squeezed so painfully at his heart every damn day of his adult life, would not mesh well with that Gryffindor-grown bubble of hope and warm, fluffy kindness Hermione Granger so seemed to embody. Was it wrong that, on some level, the very thought of entering that bubble made him sick to his stomach?

Severus rubbed distractedly on his forearm as he stared into the heap of coals still glowing dully from the fireplace.

The Dark Mark on his arm had been burning angrily for the past few days. Somewhere, in some place far away, hidden and unknown, Voldemort was in a fury, enraged by his inability to locate his spy-turned-traitor.

This was another thing to consider: Ironically, the one thing that Dumbledore feared the Death Eaters would _wrongly _assume was now a legitimate possibility. There was no denying it. Something inside Severus had been changed somehow, had been… unlocked. And now it felt as though it engulfed him entirely.

Severus thought back upon the day that Granger… (Hermione? No, best dwell on that later) the day that Granger had been in the hands of Frend underground in that cold, dark dungeon beneath the Church. Even now, the memory of her screams made him squirm, made him want to find Frend and break every last bone in the bastard's body.

Therein lay the problem. There was no doubt in Severus's mind that if Voldemort managed to get his hands on Granger and tortured her in front of him — tortured her _because _of him — that it would be his defeat, his sure undoing.

So it was, with a heavy heart, that Severus realized he had a weakness. Not only that, but a weakness that was already known to the enemy and was all but waiting to be exploited.

Despite Severus's previous insistence to Granger that he did not wish to take back his confession, now that he was alone (and his mind was no longer distracted by her voice, her smell, her supple flesh, and overwhelming presence), he sorely wished that he could.

That had been such a reckless thing to do. Reckless and stupid and — and — _damn _the girl! Did she honestly have no idea what she had thrown herself into? Didn't she think for even a moment about the consequences of her actions?

Severus groaned and buried his head in his palms.

But they had been his actions too, hadn't they? It was he himself, Severus, not her, who had started the whole thing. He was the most to blame here — and blast it all to hell, the girl was right. He needed to take responsibility for his actions. He could hardly just close his eyes and count to ten and expect Hermione to disappear.

Severus blinked. Hermione. He had said the name in his head without even...

"Hermione," he whispered quietly, suddenly impatient to know how the word felt in his mouth. He shook his head. It felt odd. Not wrong, exactly, but not right either. It would take some getting used to.

Once again, however, that was not the most pressing matter he needed to consider. There was a decision to be made, and it needed to be made tonight.

Severus ran a hand through his hair, pausing when his fingers threaded into the thick streak of gold. He could always feel something pulse through him when he touched that lock. A warmth, a slight tingling that penetrated deep into his bones. Until now, he had never quite understood what that feeling was. It was as though a bit of something that wasn't him… _lived _there. It was a presence. A kind and loving presence that had saved him and kept him alive. A presence he now knew all too well. It was… Hermione.

* * *

Hermione closed the door to her bedroom and then collapsed against it, one hand held over her still hammering heart. She could not believe what was happening, that he was downstairs at that very moment thinking about her, his blood racing, his body flushed and excited by the touch of her.

For once, at last, she knew with certainty that Snape felt… that Severus Snape… that he… Oh, she could barely think it without feeling like her heart might explode.

A moment later, Hermione forced her breathing to calm, straightened her nightgown, and then walked calmly over to the window. She was determined not to get ahead of herself. Snape had kissed her, true, but he had made more than a few good points against her — points that she was sure, now that he was alone, he would not overlook.

Hermione sighed as she watched an owl sitting in a large pine on the edge of the courtyard, preening itself in the moonlight.

She braced herself for all the things that she should have said, the things she wished she'd said, to come crashing into her brain (as they always did after an argument), yet they never came. She went over and over the conversation she'd just had with Snape, and even though she looked at it from every angle, she could not procure a better argument than the one she had just given.

Instead of heartening her, this discouraged her. It meant that she had no more ammunition, nothing more to quell his disputes. It meant that everything really and truly was in his hands. All she could do now was sit, hope, and wait impatiently for morning.

* * *

Hermione woke with a start, nearly toppling to the ground when she realized that she had fallen asleep against the windowsill. What time was it? She could smell the scent of coffee wafting up from downstairs, so she knew Snape must be awake and about.

Hermione raced to get ready, her chest near to bursting with impatience to know what he had decided. She all but sprinted to the bathroom, making record time by managing to brush her teeth and wash her face at the same time. She paused, however, when she looked up at herself in the mirror, for she found herself noticing something that she very rarely noticed: The appeal of her appearance.

She frowned at the bags under her eyes and the unhealthy pale sheen on her cheeks. Her hair was matted and tangled from being pushed up against the window all night (although, a certain passionate embrace a few hours previously might also have added to the tangle). With a whine, she snatched up a brush and combed it mercilessly through her hair as best she could. As expected, the brush did little except make it a frizzy, unmanageable mess—as opposed to the previous matted, unmanageable mess—and although that was not much of an improvement, she felt a great deal less disgruntled and sleep-mussed once she could fully run her fingers through it.

Back in her room, Hermione paused mid-way through pulling the pink sundress over her head, realizing for the first time how tacky it was to wear the same thing every day. She searched the drawers for something else, but was met with only the same moth-eaten and embarrassingly colored assortments that she had been the first time.

Finally, with a groan, she decided she was being extraordinarily stupid, and put on the same sodding dress she had worn for so long. What did it matter anyway? Certainly Snape wasn't basing his decision on her sense of fashion.

The man in question was sitting at the table with an old newspaper unfolded in front of him when Hermione entered the kitchen.

Snape did not smile when he looked up and saw her in the doorway. However, the lines on his face were softer and less severe than usual (or was she imagining it?). He, too, had dark circles under his eyes that told plainly of a very troubled and sleepless night.

"Sit down," he commanded roughly as Hermione approached. Then he checked himself. "Er… please."

Hermione did so without comment.

"Coffee?" he offered.

"Yes, thank you."

Hermione watched quietly as Snape pulled a mug out of the cupboard. She burned to know what he was thinking, but she didn't dare ask. She didn't want to push him. She knew he would tell her in his own time.

A few seconds later, Hermione accepted the steaming mug gratefully as Snape sat down opposite her and slid it towards her across the table.

"I think," he began in dulcet tones, "that it is time for me to explain the reason why things stand the way they do. Why you were not allowed to return to Hogwarts."

"What does that have to do with—"

"Do not interrupt me," he cut her off harshly. Once again, he seemed to make an immense effort to soften his countenance. "You will have your say. At the moment, it is my turn to speak. You understand?"

Hermione nodded warily.

"As I was saying — the reason why we took extra precautions with you, in addition to those we took for myself, and avoided all roads to Hogwarts, is due to…" He trailed off, considering, so carefully, it seemed, every word before he spoke it aloud. "The Headmaster believes that, owing to our unfortunate adventure with Frend, you became a prime target of the Dark Lord's. Certainly, you were a potential target long before now, however, things are slightly different, have become… more volatile. The Dark Lord and his followers are becoming more aggressive. My betrayal has inflamed him in ways you could not begin to imagine. So…" He looked as though he were going to say something, but thought better of it and took a sip of coffee instead. Then he continued. "You are a target of that renewed anger, not only because you are Muggle-born, and not only because you escaped your captor, but furthermore because the Headmaster believes that the Death Eaters might… well, that they might use you against me."

Hermione had not been expecting this. She let the news sink in for a few seconds, staring blankly at Snape, who stared right back until Hermione finally nodded for him to go on.

"I stopped Frend's wand that night because of you," he said.

Hermione opened her mouth to interrupt again. Snape held up his hand.

"And I understand that, as you see it, you did not ask me to do so. Either way, regardless of technicalities, the fact remains that my betrayal of the Dark Lord was discovered as a consequence of my actions in your defense. Frend knows this — as does, I am certain, the Dark Lord himself. Even though my actions were, at the time, spurred more by obligation than… other things… it is possible that Frend might have interpreted them differently. To him, they may have suggested the possibility that if you and I were to be put into a similar position in the future, I might… er… 'cooperate' with them, so to speak. The notion, the intention… You see, their belief would be that… I would give more secrets away if… if it were to, for instance… spare you from torture."

"Oh…" Hermione felt strangely disconnected from her body, as though what she were seeing and hearing was not actually happening, as though she were dreaming. It all sounded so foreign. The idea that Death Eaters — that _Voldemort_— would think she had enough power over Snape to force him into betraying the Order was frightening. She shuddered at the thought.

"Remember," Snape continued, "that this is wildly speculative. We are not entirely certain that this is the jump Frend made — and even if it is, who is to say that he will pursue it?" Snape swirled the last bit of his coffee around in his mug slowly, distractedly. "Therefore, in light of this, you must understand that if we… if we do…" He swallowed, all of a sudden looking strangely flustered. "If we…"

"Start a relationship?" Hermione offered quietly.

Snape gave her comment no acknowledgement. "I cannot stress how important it is that _no one_—_ever_—uncover this. I mean it, not even Black." Snape rolled his eyes. "_Especially _not Black. The moment he returns, it must end."

Hermione's head was reeling. Was this a yes she was hearing? It certainly sounded like it. After all, something had to 'happen' before it could 'end.' But surely he did not expect her to agree to such a short period of time. Who knew when Sirius would be back — the note had said it wouldn't be more than a few days. What kind of girl did he think she was? What exactly did he think she was looking for?

"End?" was all Hermione could manage.

Snape's mouth twitched. "Perhaps not forever. Or perhaps, equally, we shall never revisit the subject again. You are, after all, entitled to a change of mind."

"I won't change my mind."

"You can't know that," he replied with a touch of cool conviction. "And anyway, _it _would at least have to wait until you were finished with school."

Hermione nearly dropped her cup. "What? But that's months from now. And who knows if I'll even…" She trailed off, her throat suddenly feeling uncomfortably tight.

Snape seemed to sense what she was thinking however, and responded with a rare, bracing quality in his voice. "You will be able to return to Hogwarts and graduate, Hermione, I promise you that, at least."

Hermione did drop her cup this time. "W-what was that?"

Snape moved his own mug out of the way as a rag appeared out of nowhere and started to vigorously mop up Hermione's upturned drink. "Your schooling," he replied. "I know you are concerned about fully completing—"

"No, no," she cut him off. "You said… you just…" Hermione fought the impulse of the dazzling smile now pulling at her lips. "You called me by my name."

Snape momentarily looked extremely uncomfortable, but he did not deny her words. "Yes, well, that is what a name is for, I imagine."

"Oh, yes, yes, I suppose it is, yes." Hermione knew she sounded rather loopy, and yet she couldn't help feeling slightly shell-shocked at the sound of her name being spoken so unexpectedly. She had, on occasion, not been all that fond of the name Hermione (it was quite a mouthful), but the deep timbre in his voice and the way it rolled off his tongue made her feel as though there couldn't possibly be any better name in the world.

Hermione cleared her throat. "So… er… what exactly have you decided, then?"

Snape scoffed irritably. "Merlin's beard, how discouragingly thick have you become, Granger, must I repeat myself? I thought you were paying attention."

She was right. He wanted… he, Severus, wanted what she wanted. He was simply being more tentative about it. Hermione smiled shyly and rolled her eyes. "Alright, then, for Heaven's sake, you don't have to say it again — I just liked hearing it was all." Then she stood and walked around the table to his side, no longer self-conscious about her dull dress or her crazy hair.

"Black could be back at any time, you understand," Snape said as he watched her approach, never breaking eye contact. "And then it has to stop. School girl delusions notwithstanding, I need you to tell me that you understand."

"I understand," Hermione replied. "And I am fully aware that it will be difficult… though I agree that it's for the best." She looked down into his face with a slightly forced smile. "Then we must wait, I suppose, until I finish at Hogwarts. I wouldn't want you to lose your job after all."

Snape snorted. "Believe it or not, my job is not what most concerns me."

"Oh, isn't it?"

"I simply require that you complete your education."

"And why is that?"

"For one thing," he said, standing up from his chair and collecting the dirty dishes with a fluidity and grace that only Severus Snape seemed capable of possessing, "you will never secure a decent position in civilized, _employed _society unless you graduate with top marks, no matter how hopelessly infused with Gryffindor-bred gumption you may be." Then he paused and looked at her with his eyebrows raised in a suspiciously mischievous manner. "And, for another, I absolutely refuse to be seen with an ignorant witch."

Hermione laughed. "Fair enough. I had better study up then. Wouldn't want to embarrass you at dinner parties."

In a very rare moment of good humor, Severus gave Hermione a genuine, albeit slightly repressed, smile that made Hermione want to grab him by the ears and kiss him all over until he knew just how much he really meant to her.

As though reading her expression, Snape spoke with a sincerity that was even rarer than his smile. "I doubt very seriously you could ever embarrass me at dinner parties," he said, and Hermione felt her insides glow.

Then as Severus turned to carry the dishes back to the sink, Hermione couldn't help herself from replying lightly, "We'll see about that!"

She laughed outright at the look of exasperation that immediately crossed her professor's face.

* * *

The day that followed passed haltingly at some points, clumsily at more, and like a dream at others. The first few hours had been an experimental sort of awkwardness in which they tested each other's boundaries (both mentally and physically); they were not quite sure when to touch, what to touch, when to speak, or even what to say. But here and there they found themselves falling into a comfort that neither of them had ever known, and therefore treasured all the more.

Time often passed in a blur of happiness to Hermione, things melding together into one, long, perfect moment, every so often punctuated by tentative conversations.

* * *

They were in the study, each with open books on their laps, neither paying enough attention to the words in front of them to read more than a page.

"Prof… Severus?"  
"What?"  
"Would you mind if I asked — Were you top in your class at Hogwarts?"  
"…My grade average was one of the best, yes."  
"And are you very good at cooking?"  
"I suppose I'm adequate. Where is this going, exactly?"  
"How about the piano? You're _brilliant_ on the piano, aren't you?"  
"I am adequate."  
"I knew it."  
"What?"  
"You're one of _those_ people."  
"What people?"  
"Those people who are obnoxiously accomplished at everything ever but who continuously play down their talents and make everyone else want to slap them."  
"That is pointedly untrue. I have no problem admitting how innately talented I am. If you must know, I was simply trying to be humble for your sake."  
"Oh, I see — how noble of you."  
"Come now, noble is far too Gryffindor a characteristic for me, my dear. We Slytherins prefer to call it 'shameless manipulation.'"  
"I stand corrected."  
"I certainly hope so."

Hermione eventually gave up on reading and took a long break to make tea. As she returned to the sitting room, instead of resuming her customary seat in a chair by the fire, she made a point to join Severus on the sofa. He made no comment, but she liked to think that he enjoyed the heat of her body against his.

"Surely you weren't always perfect."  
"In school?"  
"Yes."  
"I was infallible."  
"Oh, honestly."  
"Alright. If you wish to know — and I'm certain you do — I failed one subject in my Third Year."  
"You did _not._"  
"While I appreciate your shocked indignation, Miss Granger, I assure you I did."  
"May I ask which one?"  
"You may."  
"…Well?"  
"Oh, you wanted the answer?"  
"Hah-hah, clever Sir. I am deeply sorry to be the one to tell you this, but you're not nearly as funny as you think you are."  
"Is that a fact?"  
"Yes. But don't worry, I think it's cute."  
"On pain of death, I command you, under no uncertain terms, to refrain from ever using that adjective in my presence again."  
"Certainly."  
"Good."  
"But only because you asked so nicely."  
"Quite."

Hermione finished her drink and set down her cup in order to take up Severus's hand instead, secretly leaping for joy inside when he silently allowed her to do so.

"So… what exactly did you fail?"  
"Muggle Studies."  
"Hah! Really? That doesn't make sense, though. You were… Granted, I suppose you weren't the best — the cab, and everything — but you knew all about the money, and the airplane, and the clothes—"  
"Obviously I endeavored to redeem myself, didn't I?"  
"I'd say you succeeded."  
"I'd say I did too."  
"Shocking."  
"Hardly."

* * *

It was early afternoon. After dumping their dishes in the sink, they traveled outside into the courtyard. There they strolled through the tiny garden, making random loops around the fountain and pausing every now and then so Hermione could coo over a particularly beautiful plant. Though Severus did not much care for 'strolling through the flowers,' in fact his sensibilities resisted it with every possible facet of disgust, and he made a point to complain about it—loudly, and often—however, he raised not a single objection when Hermione slipped her arm delicately through his.

This touching thing, they soon realized, was becoming easier all the time.

"Severus?"  
"What?"  
"Dumbledore told Harry that… that the reason he, Harry, was never tempted by the Dark Arts was because of his ability to love…"  
"Yes."  
"And also because of all the people who loved him…"  
"Are you trying to make me ill?"  
"No, I'm just trying to… to…"  
"Yes?"  
"To ask you if…"  
"If the reason I became a Death Eater was because I did not care for anyone?"  
"In as many words."  
"You _are_ a nosy, tenacious little insect."  
"I wouldn't put it quite like that, but yes. Nosy and aware of it, thank you very much."  
"You're welcome very much."  
"So, now that we've established that…"  
"It's complicated."  
"What do you mean?"  
"You wouldn't understand."  
"Try me."  
"With pleasure."  
"Hey! I didn't mean kiss me!"  
"My mistake."  
"It is very much your mistake — no more kissing until you've answered my question."  
"Nosy _and_ stubborn. Have I ever mentioned what an unpleasant combination that is?"  
"You're pushing it."  
"Am I? How unlike me."  
"You can be very irritating at times."  
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Pot, it's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Mr. Kettle."  
"…Yes, alright."

Despite himself, Severus found their teasing banter slightly liberating. He liked deflecting her questions when he could do so without venom or malice, and he liked that she responded in kind. He liked that he could keep his secrets yet make her laugh at the same time. Both of them knew they weren't going to get to know each other in a matter of hours, and so they simply—for want of a better phrase—let things happen.

"Did you know that it was me who stole ingredients from your stores in my Second Year?"  
"I did know that, naturally. And may I remind you that you still owe me a fair amount of galleons for the Boomslang Skin. It is not an easy ingredient to come by."  
"How did you know it was me?"  
"The Headmaster told me."  
"He did not!"  
"He did. Although, he assured me that you had done so out of nothing but the best intentions."  
"Er… did he ever mention anything about my First Year?"  
"Several things. Why?"  
"Oh, no reason."  
"Tell me."  
"…I don't know…"  
"You are a poor Occlumens, Granger, though it pains me to tell you. It would not be wise to attempt to keep secrets from me."  
"Yes, I can see how greatly it pains you."  
"Torn to pieces."  
"Alright, well… Well… Alright. I was the one who set fire to your robes at Harry's first Quidditch match."  
"You _what_? That was… _YOU_?"  
"I've been meaning to apologize about that for ages, but I've never been able to find the right time…"  
"In six years? You couldn't find the right time to tell me in _six years_?"  
"Well, you were always so — er — busy."  
"And here, all this time I thought Potter was the trouble maker of your bunch…"

* * *

Late afternoon and they were back inside, having been driven in by the sudden appearance of angry rain clouds. They lit a fire in the sitting room, and were soon quite comfortable. Perhaps too comfortable, for Severus found himself losing several defenses he had always meant to retain.

"So… there it is."  
"There it is."  
"You know, I have never actually, physically, seen the Dark Mark on someone's arm before."  
"I would count that as a positive thing."  
"I would too. Though, I really am glad you showed me. I… feel closer to you now."  
"Must you express every feeling you have the moment you have it?"  
"Well, excuse me for living."  
"I might, but only if you stop prodding my arm."  
"Oh, sorry, does that hurt? It seems a bit red. Does it always look like that?"  
"Only when it's burning."  
"Then it _is_ bothering you! How long has this been going on?"  
"About a week."  
"You poor thing, I had no idea."  
"For pity's sake, stop fussing. I've had plenty worse in my day, I promise you. Poor thing indeed. _Spare_ me."  
"I was just worried about you. Honestly, if it bothers you so much, I'll take me and my _excessive_ feelings elsewhere."  
"Alright, alright, settle down. If you're going to throw such a fit, I suppose I'll let you fuss over me, then."  
"How magnanimous of you."  
"Isn't it just."

Hermione readily admitted to herself that she rather liked having someone to fuss over, and even though he would hex off his own ears before admitting it (even to himself), Severus rather liked _being _the someone that she fussed over.

* * *

Some time later they migrated down to the basement, where Hermione tried and failed to convince Severus into playing the piano for her. It was far too much for him far too fast, and though she was slightly disappointed, Hermione did not push him. Instead they simply sat together on the small bench, speaking when they had something to say and sitting in silence when they did not.

"For Merlin's sake, Granger, would you stop twiddling random notes like that?"  
"Does it bother you?"  
"Bother does not even begin to describe the sheer, debilitating magnitude of annoyance."  
"Stop, you're too kind."  
"As I have often been told."  
"Actually, I do know one song on the piano, if you're interested."  
"Oh, yes. I'm on tenterhooks. What song would that be?"  
"Heart and Soul."  
"Of course it is."  
"What's that supposed to mean?"  
"Nothing. I wonder if it's stopped raining."  
"Let's play it together."  
"Let's not."  
"Come on, I'll let you have the easy part."  
"As opposed to…"  
"So they're both easy. But the higher one is the most fun."  
"Neither of them are _the most fun_."  
"Which part do you want to play?"  
"Neither."  
"Come on, lower or higher?"  
"Neither."  
"Lower it is then."

Of course, he gave in. What else could he do? The girl was stubborn. And it seemed as though all of his carefully constructed willpower went straight out the window whenever that dammed little body was pressed up against his. Hard be it for him to deny her anything when she was so close, so warm, looking so small, so clever and defiant…

"Why are we doing this? This is ridiculous."  
"No, it's lovely — Blast! I got off again."  
"When were you on?"  
"Prat."  
"Wench."  
"Stop talking — you're distracting me."  
"Remind me again why we're wasting time in such a frivolous, haphazard manner."  
"Because I like to spend time with you. Is that so deplorable?"  
"Not as such, no. Though it certainly brings your sanity into question."  
"Good. Then hush up and keep playing your bit. It's your fault you got the boring part."

* * *

It was still early in the evening when they at last sat down for dinner, Hermione with a contented smile on her face, and Severus with a slightly less rigid mask upon his. There was a hit of accomplishment in the air — though what that accomplishment was, neither of them knew, nor cared to know. It was enough for them that the feeling was there, and that it kept a special little fire burning in their hearts.

"Severus?"  
"What now?"  
"Have I ever told you how sexy you look with a beard?"  
"Have you? I don't remember."  
"Well, you do."  
"Duly noted. Pass the broccoli."  
"Severus?"  
"What?"  
"Do you think I'm pretty?"  
"Hah!"  
"What?"  
"Please tell me that Hermione Granger is not _fishing for compliments_."  
"No, I really want to know what you think. Truly."  
"Your hair is the most unmanageable mess I have ever seen."  
"Oh…"  
"And you are exquisitely beautiful."  
"Truly?"  
"No."  
"Hey!"  
"That's the end of this conversation."  
"Fine."  
"Fine. May I eat my dinner in peace?"  
"You may."  
"Thank you."  
"Don't mention it."  
"I won't."

Neither of them were saying it, but both of them were undoubtedly thinking it: Things were working out. Somewhere between loathing and loving, they had found a comfortable place to settle down and wait. They needed time to talk, to figure each other out. Because despite the six long years that they had spent teaching and learning in the same building, neither of them knew all that much about each other…really…  
**  
**

* * *

It was beautiful and quiet that night on the patio. Hermione sighed contentedly as she listened to the distant hooting of an owl and took another lazy sip on her hot chocolate. As she did so, she snuck a peek at Severus out of the corner of her eye. The sun was just setting and the red-orange light cast a pleasant glow on his cheeks and across the bridge of his long nose. He was staring off into the woods with a slightly pensive look on his face, his pale fingers curled loosely around a white, porcelain mug.

She had never seen him so relaxed. It was a wonderful sight. She felt such a profound sense of peacefulness wash over her that she found herself never wanting the evening to this perfect day to end.

As though feeling her eyes upon him, Severus briefly turned his head in Hermione's direction. He didn't smile, but his mouth twitched suggestively. Then, without a word — perhaps loath to break the silence — he turned his gaze back to the forest.

Hermione sighed again. _That's alright_, she thought. _I can smile enough for the both of us._

Eventually the sun fully set, bringing with it an over-hanging blanket of stars and a symphony of nocturnal sounds. Hermione had no idea that she had fallen asleep until she was awoken by a hand plucking the steadily slipping mug out of her hands. Momentarily, she felt the comforting weight of a blanket settle over her body, and she opened her eyes just in time to see the retreating form of Severus disappear through the double doors and into the cottage.

She looked at the empty table before her and realized that he must have collected all of the dishes and was taking them inside to clean. As much as she would have liked to stay curled up under the stars, Hermione felt compelled to be useful. So, wrapping the blanket around her like a brown, cotton cocoon, she shuffled after Severus and into the kitchen. There she found him standing at the sink with his sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in soapy water.

"Out of all the abundantly worthless spells they have around this house," she said, and Severus flicked a glance in her direction, "you'd think they would have one for dishes. Or at the very least, a dishwasher."

"I think they have enough Muggle contraptions as it is," Severus replied as he rinsed off a small white saucer and set it on a rack by the sink to dry. "Did I wake you?"

On the surface, his voice sounded monotone and ambivalent, but in all the time she had spent with him over the past semester, Hermione had gradually learned to listen for more behind his words. For instance, when he said, "Did I wake you?" she knew that what he really meant was, "I did not mean to wake you" — which were two very different things, in her opinion.

Hermione grabbed a towel out of one of the drawers, and with her elbow still pinning the blanket to her body, she began to dry the dishes Severus set aside. She was having a difficult time of it, however, and after nearly dropping two consecutive cups, Severus clearly became fed up.

"Here, for Merlin's sake." He quickly wiped his soapy hands on a towel, then reached over, grabbed two corners of the blanket, and tied them together in a knot on Hermione's shoulder.

She looked down at herself and laughed. "I look ridiculous," she said.

"What else is new," he muttered promptly, then quickly ducked when Hermione sent a handful of soap bubbles in his direction.

"There you go being funny again," she said in mock-annoyance. "Honestly, I don't know why I put up with you."

Severus discreetly flicked a bit of bubble off his arm and inwardly gloated as a small glob landed perfectly across the bridge of her nose.

"What was that for?" she asked.

"Despite your already inherent nature, I didn't think you looked quite ridiculous enough," he said. "You do now, though."

Hermione pulled a face and Severus let out one of his rare, rumbling chuckles that made her heart skip and her body tingle all over.

Before he could go back to the dishes, Hermione grabbed Severus's arm and stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. With a slight turn of his head, however, Severus quickly captured her lips instead.

Hermione was surprised. Yet she gave herself over to the kiss almost immediately. For once, they were not in the heat of an argument or caught up in a frenzy of conflicting, passionate emotions, so there was a tentativeness about this kiss that had never existed before. Severus was cautious, inoffensive, wrapping his soapy arms around Hermione's waist—but not in aggressive way. He simply rested them there lightly, holding her to him, while at the same time giving her room to decide how close she wanted to get.

At first, Hermione remained where she was, suddenly shy of pressing herself up against him in the brash, daring way as she had done twice before. For once she was acutely aware of just what her tongue was doing, and whether or not he _liked _what her tongue was doing. She didn't have much experience. Did he notice? Was he enjoying it? She couldn't tell (his actions were so hard to read!). Yet, despite her fear of error, it did not take long for Hermione to work up the nerve to close a bit more distance between them—grabbing his collar, pulling him towards her, letting her hands roam over the breadth of his chest, undoing one or two top buttons of his oxford and stealthily slipping her hands beneath the fabric to feel the smooth, warm skin beneath.

Just as Severus's hand slid deep into her hair, his tongue thrusting roughly into her mouth and causing a wave of pleasure to pulse through her body like a gunshot, she heard the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Then there were quick footsteps down the hall, and the two of them had just enough time to leap apart before Sirius Black came striding into the room.

Sirius stopped dead at the sight of them. No one said anything as he gave both Hermione and Severus a once-over. "Snape?" he finally questioned, thunder-struck by the sight of the ex-Death Eater partially covered in bubbles and holding a wet dishtowel. "_Hermione_?" he said, sounding even more aghast. "What in hell are you wearing?"

Realizing that she had a blanket tied around her like a toga and a glob of soap bubbles on her nose, Hermione hurriedly loosened the knot at her shoulder while at the same time wiping her face off on her sleeve. "We were — er — washing dishes," she explained quickly, hoping her cheeks weren't too flushed, or her lips too swollen. Her gut was still writhing hotly with unsated desire, the ghost of Snape's kisses still lingering on her skin. She cleared her throat. "And anyways, where have you _been_? We've been worried to pieces, all we got was this vague note saying that you had some sort of something to take care of, and that you were delayed, and that… what?"

Sirius was still looking back and forth between the two of them suspiciously. "You were washing the dishes… together?"

"Get to the point, Black," growled Snape, who had wadded up the towel in his hands and tossed it back into the sink. "How did it go? I assume you didn't bungle it up too badly, or else you wouldn't have had the nerve to show your face."

Sirius's expression instantly darkened, and his hand moved towards his pocket menacingly. "We were successful, yes," he replied icily.

Hermione was lost — what did Snape mean 'how did it go'? Did he know something she did not? "Wait, what was successful?" she asked, looking back and forth between the two men who were glaring furiously at each other. "What were you sent to do, Sirius?"

Neither of them were paying her any attention.

"You had help, though, of course," said Snape in a slippery voice, never taking his eyes off Sirius. "In fact, you probably just sat around being customarily useless while everyone else did the real work, didn't you? That is what you're best at. Who's life was on the line for you this time?"

"Don't push me, Snivellus," he snarled.

"Excuse me!" Hermione interrupted again shrilly. "What are you two going on about?"

"Don't push you? What are you going to do, Black — bark at me? You know you can't use your wand."

Sirius was looking murderous. "I can think of plenty of things I can do _without _my wand!" And as if to emphasize just that, his hands balled into tight fists.

"Would someone _please _tell me what the bloody hell is going on!" Hermione stamped her foot, throwing her arms up in frustration and accidentally sending one of the newly cleaned cups clattering to the floor.

Miraculously, it did not break, and Snape swooped down to pick it up. "Black will explain — I'm going to bed," he said, handing the cup back to Hermione.

As his hand brushed hers, the terms of their agreement came crashing quite suddenly back to Hermione. She realized with a stab of remorse that their relationship was already over. Over before it had hardly begun. Now she would have to wait until the end of school — and that seemed like years away. "Sev — er — Professor Snape," she said before he could leave. "Thank you for… for helping me with the dishes." Hermione looked into Snape's eyes and willed him to know what she had really meant by those words, that what she really wanted to thank him for was something else entirely.

Snape gave her a nearly imperceptible nod (though whether or not he had caught her full meaning, she wasn't sure), and then, with Sirius still watching shrewdly, turned and left.

Already, Hermione could tell that the following days would not be easy ones.

* * *

Despite the fact that both Sirius and Snape had initially insisted that the Order meeting had nothing to with Hermione, as it turned out, it had nearly _everything _to do with her. According to Sirius, they had simply "not wanted to worry her," afraid that if she knew who was involved, she would have insisted on coming herself.

For the past two days, Sirius, and a few members of the Order, had planned and executed the transportation of Mr. and Mrs. Granger from their Muggle home to a remote location (which, much to Hermione's chagrin, Sirius refused to disclose).

It had been fortunate that Sirius and the others arrived when they did, for, nearly to the second, when they stepped inside the Grangers' house, a swarm of masked, hooded visitors stormed in right behind them. They were looking for collateral against Hermione and her friends, just as Dumbledore had suspected.

Order members fought the Death Eaters off valiantly, and only just barely managed to escape with the Grangers by Portkey. During the scuffle, Kingsly Shacklebolt had somehow been sent crashing through a glass window, but Sirius assured Hermione that he was on the mend and would soon be fully recovered.

"Your mum and dad both send their love, of course," he had said an hour later, as they sat at the kitchen table and he finished relating the eventful tale. "As do Harry and Ron."

Besides being thoroughly irritated that no one had had the decency to fill her in on her own parents' escape (she would be having words with Snape later), Hermione had been livid that Sirius allowed the two boys to come along. Sirius insisted that they showed up on their own, claiming they had heard Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore discussing the mission in his office. Apparently they had then refused to go back to school unless they were allowed to help.

"You should have _made _them go back," Hermione argued. "That was incredibly dangerous, what's the matter with you? Just one little mistake, one unseen spell, and they would have been dead."

"They just wanted to help, Hermione — I'm proud of them. You should be too. "

"I don't understand. I simply mention the fact that I might want to be an Auror after I graduate, and you tell me I'll blow myself up, but here Harry and Ron come rushing blindly into a fight and you give them a sodding pat on the back!"

"They fought well. I'm proud of them," he repeated.

"You won't be so proud the next time, when they get themselves killed and it's all your fault," she had replied, a spark of fire burning behind her eyes. She was angry with him for so many reasons—not the least of which was… well, it didn't matter now. Snape was all locked away in his room.

Sirius had been noticeably cooler towards her after that comment, and the discussion ended soon thereafter, with both of them departing off for bed, their mouths thinned and eyes narrowed.

Hermione stopped when she came to Snape's door (for once, there was no light on behind it), and spent ten painful seconds standing in the hallway, aching to go inside but knowing that she couldn't. Her brief anger at him for not telling her about her parents, washed slowly away with every second that ticked by.

She and Snape hadn't even been able to say a proper goodbye. If she had known that kiss was going to be the last, she would have savored it more — but she had been so sure they would have more time. Now Sirius was back, and everything had to return to the way it was.

When Hermione entered her room and flicked on the lights, she noticed a small, folded note waiting for her on her bedcover. It had nothing written on the front of it, but she knew instantly who it was from.

Greedily, she unfolded the parchment and read over the familiar, spidery writing.

_Hermione,_

_I assume that I do not need to relate to you again the terms of our agreement, and I want you to know that had I any other choice, I would bloody well take it. But, as of now, your safety is of greater concern, and if that means we must once again thread our words with mutual disdain, then so be it._

_Furthermore, I feel obligated to note that Black is already getting suspicious. This is partly my fault, though you are not entirely bereft of blame, and it is clear that we are both being far too civil to one another. In light of this, I expect you to play along when I am short with you at breakfast. I give you full permission — in fact, I sincerely implore you — to retaliate with gusto._

_I am sure that this will not prove a difficult feat for you._

.  
SS

Hermione stared miserably down at the letter in her hands, and willed herself to feel fortunate for the time she had been given with him, brief though it was.

She looked closely at the bottom of the note and noticed a small dot of ink just above the double S, as though Snape had started to write something there, and then thought better of it.

Hermione worried her bottom lip with her teeth thoughtfully. Well, she supposed it _was _a little early for her to expect him to start signing his letters "with love" or "eternally yours" or any other cheesy phrases of that sort. But, the dot was there, and that meant that he must at least have had a similar notion in his head — which kept a spark of pleasure burning in Hermione's chest.

_In any case_, she thought rationally as she re-read the first paragraph, _he clearly has my best interests at heart, and the separation is only temporary._

Surely, she could wait until graduation—she _had _to wait until graduation. After all, it was only a few months…

Hermione fell backwards onto her mattress and buried her face in her pillow with a blissful sigh.

And a few more months, she realized, was not forever.

* * *

A/N: The line in which Severus refuses to "be seen with an ignorant witch" is, unfortunately, not mine. I borrowed that line from hands down my favorite SS/HG story of all time. "The Buried Life" is what introduced/turned me on to this ship, and I will forever be grateful for (and awed by) the author's brilliant writing. She greatly surpasses my own mediocre attempts in every way possible! So go read it if you haven't already! I promise you'll enjoy it :D


	17. Secrets and Portkeys

**Chapter Seventeen**

Severus lay awake that morning, staring placidly at the ceiling. The sun was just peeking in through a slight crack in the heavy drapes at his window and cast a long, narrow ray of orange light across his bed. He knew he should get up and go to breakfast, face the day and all that, but the thought of inspiring a frown instead of a smile on Granger's face, made him want to pull the covers over his head and remain there for the rest of the day.

_Oh hell, Severus. Pull yourself together. Christ._

Despite himself, he had grown accustomed to the sparkle in Granger's eyes and the laugh lines on her cheeks. Seeing both of those things in response to his own words gave him such a deep, unexpected sense of satisfaction that it made him wonder belatedly whether he might actually be going clinically insane. Before Granger, he couldn't remember the last time he had said something in order to illicit happiness; everything that came out of his mouth had always been to antagonize, to anger, to irritate.

Severus's eyes narrowed. Speaking of irritating…

Black had, yet again, shown the most astoundingly terrible timing in the whole bloody world. Severus had no regrets about the way he had treated him. Granted, the things he had said had been primarily out of annoyance for something that was not completely Black's fault (namely, blundering in on what was promising to be a very satisfying snog). Then again, it was not as though he had ever been particularly civil to Black prior to said interruption.

Finally, Severus grudgingly pulled back the covers and eased out of bed. He had been awake for over an hour already, and it was about time he got up.

Besides, his head was aching, and he needed his coffee.

* * *

It had been a very long time since Hermione had managed a good night's rest, and, unfortunately (though not unexpectedly), last night was no exception.

She woke that morning to the sound of her own teeth chattering. The air inside the house was nearly as frigid as the icy wind outside, because apparently, everyone had been in such a foul mood the previous night that no one had remembered to turn the heat up. She glanced out the window and made a small groan as she saw the massive flurry of white snowflakes. _Brilliant_.

Wrapping her arms firmly around herself, and walking stiffly across the hall to the bathroom, Hermione poked around in some old cupboards before finally finding an old, moth-eaten robe tucked away behind some grungy towels. It was a dreadful furry thing, colored the most obnoxious shade of pink, but it was mercifully warm so she put it on.

Sirius was already up and about by the time Hermione made it downstairs. Neither of them said a word to each other, the sting from their previous argument still smarting on both sides.

In light of her exhaustion, and the near-glacial state of the house, Hermione took a stab at making coffee. Her hands were so numb with cold, however, that she spilled what little was left and so was therefore forced to make tea instead. Sirius simply made a bowl of porridge (as there was no ruddy way that Hermione was going to fix his breakfast for him) and then, after muttering something about waiting by the window for the newspaper, he left the kitchen and headed for the sitting room down the hall.

As childish as he was acting, the moment Sirius left the room, Hermione regretted not speaking to him. She thought briefly about going after him, then the kettle started to whistle from atop the stove and the promise of a hot drink made her turn right back around.

It wasn't until after she had poured herself a full cup of near-boiling water that Hermione realized the only teabags left in the kitchen were from a warped, little yellow box of something lemon and hideous, which, normally, Hermione would not touch with a ten-foot pole. But the house was cold, the hot water in her mug was steaming invitingly, and as irritated and disappointed as she was, she went ahead and made it.

So it was that Hermione found herself two minutes later sitting bleary-eyed at the kitchen table, swathed in a long puce nightgown, overlaid with a fuzzy pink monstrosity, and scalding her tongue on the most revoltingly flavored water she had ever put in her mouth. Needless to say, she did not begin her morning in a very good mood.

Hermione looked up from her mug as Snape appeared in the doorway. He seemed tired, disheveled, grumpy, frozen solid, and clearly in no better spirits than she was herself. Perhaps it was because she was so exhausted, or perhaps it was simply the fact that she knew she couldn't have him, but either way, at that moment, Hermione had never thought Severus Snape looked more attractive.

With Sirius gone from the room, they silently allowed themselves to stare at each other for one long, undisturbed moment, neither saying a word, neither making a move.

Hermione drank in every detail of him — from the top of his sleep-mussed head all the way down to the bottom of his cold bare feet. She studied the way that his jaw curved with an almost poetic grace into his neck. She studied the wrinkles on his forehead and at the corners of his eyes, the frown lines etched into his cheeks, the lock of gold that shone in brilliant contrast to the rest of his black scruffy hair, the wide breadth of his shoulders, the way he carried himself; he was straight-backed with a sturdy frame, exhausted but proud. Hermione noticed and noticed, until she at last came to rest once again on his dark, hooded eyes.

It was then she realized that he had been studying her as well, and she blushed at the thought of what she must look like in her strange, colorful attire. Not to mention with hair like a rat's nest and deep ugly circles under her eyes.

Snape's expression did not change as his gaze raked over her once more, but she swore she could see a sparkle of amusement buried somewhere behind his stoic mask (no doubt at her expense!). She didn't mind, though, really. She already knew that she looked ridiculous. _At least I'm warm_, she thought smugly, for Snape looked chilled to the bone.

"Coffee," Snape muttered at last, his breath coming out in a white, hazy cloud. The spell was broken between them as he shook his head and proceeded stiffly towards the kitchen counter.

Hermione listened to him ferret around in the cupboards for a while until he suddenly slammed one of the little doors shut with a snap, and growled, "Well, where is it?"

Hermione did not turn around, staring stoically into her tea mug as she found it much easier to act indifferent when Snape wasn't in her direct line of sight. "Afraid I spilled it," she said. "Sorry. I made some tea, though, if you would like a—"

"What do you mean, you _spilled it_?" Snape hissed threateningly. "_All of it_? You stupid girl, what am I supposed to drink?"

Hermione's lips puckered angrily. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"No, no — of course not," Snape replied in a snide, nasty tone that made Hermione's jaw clench and her hands grip her mug so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

"I've made tea, _Professor_," she ground out angrily. "And you are welcome to it." She hoped Sirius was listening (they were being rather loud), because she definitely did not enjoy doing this.

"I don't want your bloody tea, Granger," Snape snarled.

Hermione's heartbeat began to speed up despite her earnest insisting to herself that this was all just an act. Snape was only pretending to be angry, right? She couldn't help it — a seed of doubt had lodged itself in her chest, and now Hermione began to wonder whether he really was acting after all. She wanted to turn and look at him, but she was afraid of what she might see. She was afraid that the fragile new spark of warmth would be gone from his eyes, and she would once again be staring down a cold, unfeeling mask. Perhaps some of her nervousness began to show on her face, because as Snape passed her on his way towards the sink, Hermione felt a strong hand close briefly over her shoulder and give her a soft, brief, affectionate squeeze.

Hermione's heart was instantly soaring again, and she watched out of the corner of her eyes as Snape walked over to the stove and grudgingly poured himself a mug of hot tea.

Both she and Snape jumped in surprise when there came a sudden blast of howling wind from the room down the hall, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a screeching, thoroughly distraught owl.

"Shut that window, you bastard!" Snape roared. "As if it isn't cold enough in here already!"

Sirius yelled back what was probably a very scathing retort; it was impossible to make out over the wind. Finally, the sound stopped, and moments later Sirius came back into the kitchen with a very disgruntled owl on one hand and a rather damp copy of _The Daily Prophet _clutched in the other.

"Here," he said irritably, walking over to where Hermione sat and dumping the owl unceremoniously on the table in front of her. "He needs a rest." Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared once again into the hall.

Thoroughly irritated by Sirius, but not wanting to take it out on the poor animal, Hermione attempted to coax the owl towards her, cooing comforting words and wondering whether or not Snape was still watching her. The owl simply sat there in response, giving Hermione an almost disdainful look—as though it resented any notion of being _coddled_. It flinched horribly when Hermione reached out. Then, a moment later, it narrowed its eyes warily, and scooted forward so that her fingertips were in reach. She began to stroke it softly, brushing away the snow on its back and putting its windswept feathers back into place. Eventually, the owl seemed to enjoy this, and its eyes wandered shut as it allowed her to continue.

Hermione looked up to see that Snape was indeed watching her from where he stood by the sink, leaning against the counter and sipping quietly on his tea.

She caught his eyes again and they had another significant moment, simply staring at each other without speaking — the silence only broken every so often by the owl's contented hoots.

Hermione was just about to open her mouth to ask him what he thought of the tea when there came another loud noise from the room down the hall — this time, a shrill yelp and an answering clatter.

Hermione leapt up in surprise, causing the owl to shoot into the air in a flurry of feathers and irritable screeches. She immediately headed towards the door, but Snape cut her off.

"Wait here," he ordered, sparing a moment to give her a firm look, and then turning and hurrying off towards the sitting room.

Hermione entertained only a split-second of hesitation before deciding that she would do nothing of the sort. She sprinted to catch up with Snape, nearly running flat into his back when she rushed through the doorway and suddenly came up right behind him.

A thousand different scenarios had flashed through Hermione's head, most of them involving Death Eaters, and all of them involving something horribly dramatic. But the room was just as it had always been, empty save for Sirius. He was standing with one hand grasping the back of a tall toffee-colored rocking chair and the other holding _The Daily Prophet _out in front of him as though it were a bomb about to explode. The scattered remains of his porridge bowl and spoon lay on the ground at his feet (which immediately explained the clatter).

"What is it?" both Hermione and Snape asked at once.

Snape shot Hermione a brief, furious glance, but otherwise did not comment on the fact that she had just disobeyed a direct order.

Sirius's eyes were glued to the newspaper. "It's—it's you," he stammered. "Both of you, you're on the front page!"

"_What_," Snape strode forward and snatched the paper out of Sirius's hands.

Sirius gave a sharp "hey!" of surprise, but otherwise, let him have it.

Hermione hurriedly positioned herself behind Snape and peered over his elbow. She gasped. Sure enough, there was her very own face plastered across the front of the newspaper. She was wearing what looked like her favorite blue sweater (where did they get that picture?), and every so often the image of herself would glance nervously at the image of a scowling Snape that was positioned directly beside her.

Snape's picture was even larger than hers, and under it read a long caption in big bold letters:

**KIDNAPPER? RESCUER? WHOSE SIDE IS THIS SLIPPERY SNAPE ON? WE WANT ANSWERS DUMBLEDORE!**

With a bitter, derisive snort, Snape flipped open the paper to the article itself.

Hermione scanned it furiously.

"Hey!" she said, reaching over Snape's arm to point out a piece of text. "You didn't set fire to the Forbidden Forest, you were helping to put it out!"

"I know," he growled in reply, shoving her arm away with his elbow.

Hermione kept reading. "Hey, what is—_You_ didn't drag me off into the woods — it was that _thing_, that monster. You—you were the one who saved me!"

"I know."

"And WHAT? You did _not _try to kill me over the holidays. That was just an accident!"

"For Merlin's sake, I _KNOW_!"

"I mean, of course it was bound to get out sooner or later that we were missing," Hermione continued, ignoring the increasingly irritated looks she was drawing from Snape. "But this is — this is too absurd. How can they print what is so obviously ridiculous? How can they think that you would want to kill me. This isn't even Rita Skeeter writing the article—Why didn't Dumbledore set them straight?"

Sirius jumped in before Snape could answer. "I'm sure he tried," he said bitterly. "But he may not have been asked to comment. Even if he was, any reporter worth his stuff would undoubtedly be very selective about what they included in print. Why does that surprise you? It happened to me, didn't it?"

Hermione shifted uncomfortably. "Yes, well, but I mean, everyone thought that you were… Even Professor Lupin was convinced that you had…" Then Hermione saw the furious expression on Sirius's face, and she quickly backpedaled. "I mean, it's not fair, in any case. They shouldn't have the right!"

"Well, they do," Snape cut in harshly, "and there isn't a blasted thing we can do about it. What a load of rubbish." He crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the nearest bin before exiting the room.

"Oi! I wasn't done with that!" Sirius yelled after him. Unsurprisingly, Snape did not answer.

* * *

The following afternoon, all three occupants of the cottage were gathered in the sitting room and Hermione, unsurprisingly, was still seething over misquotes in _The Daily Prophet_. Snape, after becoming fed up with her long-winded tirades about proper journalism (as if she even knew the first thing about proper journalism), finally suggested, quite waspishly, that if she felt so offended by the whole thing, why didn't she just write them a letter?

"Maybe I should!" she had snapped back, prickling at his sarcasm. "You know, I'm only taking offense on your behalf. You should be grateful."

"Oh, yes, I should just fall weeping to the floor and worship you for all that whining you've done over the past three hours. Thank you so much for distracting me from my book — you must have sensed somehow that deep down I didn't actually want to read it."

Not wanting to be caught up in the impending argument, Sirius observed that he might as well see how their owl friend was doing (they had thought it best to wait for the snowstorm to die down before releasing it again) and made a swift escape.

Hermione and Snape's bickering had hit its stride at that point, and so even without Sirius in the room, it continued on unhindered — every so often escalating to bouts of shouting, or in Hermione's case, physical tantrums. She had been attempting to pluck the petals off of a lovely bouquet of purple Verbena for later use in her potion, but through her anger, she had accidentally reduced it all to a shredded, unusable mass on the tabletop.

Snape's derisive snort at her flower massacre was the final straw.

"Fine," she said briskly, sweeping the shredded purple remains into the dustbin and then standing to leave. "I'll be in my office if anyone needs me."

"Good to know. I'll be sure to pay you a visit if I find another book that I don't want to read."

Hermione was beyond caring about pretense and by now had thoroughly convinced herself that none of what Snape was saying had anything to do with convincing Sirius. He was simply being an irritable arse. "You're impossible!" she seethed.

"So I've been told."

"Ooooh," Hermione growled. She glared furiously at Snape as he sat there in his favorite armchair by the fire, his legs stretched languidly out on the ottoman. She lowered her voice to an angry whisper. "Sirius isn't even here. Why are you being so cruel!"

Snape's eyes were two dark slits as he looked at her over the spine of his book and hissed reproachfully, "Pardon me for keeping my end of the bargain, _Miss Granger_. Would you rather I penned you love poems and sank to my knees kissing your feet every time Black left the room? I, for one, would rather not risk it. Excuse me for trying to keep you out of the hands of the Dark Lord."

Hermione was beside herself. "Why do you still call him that anyway," she snapped, giving up on her dulcet tones and letting her annoyance get the better of her. "The Dark Lord indeed!"

"Why do you _think _I call him that," he replied, the book in his hands long forgotten, "you impossible girl—"

"I don't have the faintest bloody idea!" Hermione put her hands on her hips and looked at him in a mocking sort of way. "Are you really so terrified of him, is that it? Does speaking the name just send you into pants-wetting hysterics, Professor?"

"Now you listen here, Granger—"

"And if you're going to call him anything, don't call him 'The Dark Lord' — that horrible brute shouldn't be 'Lord' of _anything_! For Merlin's sake, it's only a name! Just say it! VOL — DE — MO—"

But no sooner had Hermione's mouth began to form the final syllable, when something erupted out of Snape's pocket. It was the tiny, one-sided mirror that Snape normally used for communicating with Dumbledore (he had shown it to Hermione briefly on the cab ride from the Airport), and for some mysterious, spectacular reason, it was now spinning rapidly in the air between them, reflecting the light of the fire so that it almost seemed to glow with a celestial light.

A split-second later it stopped, quivering in mid-air, and Dumbledore's booming voice reverberated through the house:

"DO NOT SAY HIS NAME! THERE IS A CURSE UPON IT! YOU WILL BE FOUND! DO NOT SAY HIS NAME!'

Then, Dumbledore's voice stopped just as suddenly as it started, and the mirror gave one last shudder before promptly dropping back down to the carpeted floor with a soft thud. The silence that followed was deafening.

Hermione's ears were still ringing as she and Snape shared a wide-eyed glance. _That was close_, she thought, trying to form words, but unable to force any sound to pass her lips.

Momentarily, Sirius appeared in the doorway looking just as frightened and confused as Hermione felt. "Who was that?" he gasped. "What happened? What name can't we say?"

"I need to speak to the Headmaster," was all Snape offered in reply, and stooped down to snatch up the mirror before quickly exiting the room.

Hermione swallowed, turning to face Sirius. "I-it was Dumbledore." She pointed after Snape. "The mirror. We can't say You-Know-Who's name — his real name — or… or we'll be found… I think. I don't know — something about a curse — Oh, that was scary!"

"Alright. Well. I think the 'don't say his name' part sounds clear enough," Sirius replied, his expression grave. "You sure it was Dumbledore?"

Hermione nodded.

"Okay, then. Don't say his name — I think we can handle that."

Hermione nodded again.

* * *

Snape was shut up in his room for over two hours that afternoon, and when he finally did emerge, it was to reveal that he and Dumbledore had constructed an elaborate safety plan — an escape plan — to be used in the event that, Merlin forbid, they were ever found.

The idea was to have a Portkey on the second floor, closest to the bedrooms. Should anything go seriously wrong, for any reason, they were to get to that Portkey as fast as they could (preferably all together, but better one than none), and it would transport them directly into Hogsmeade — second floor of the Three Broomsticks. From there, they were to go straight to Dumbledore, no matter what.

The creation of this Portkey would be breaking more than a few Ministry laws, but Dumbledore, understandably, was willing to risk it. He would be sending the item through the Floo in approximately three hours time, when most Ministry staff members were on break, and Arthur Weasley said he would personally oversee the transaction.

After finding a place to put it, Snape would then perform sort of hocus-pocus (advanced wandless magic — Hermione was quite looking forward to seeing this) to activate the thing, and then it was not to be touched unless they were in the throes of some sort of dire emergency.

There was a brief argument over which room in which to place the Portkey, after which it was eventually decided that Hermione's room would be best.

Hermione thought this insane, seeing as she wasn't even a member of the Order, and was probably the most 'expendable' out of the three of them. But the two men were adamant.

For the first time (perhaps ever), Snape and Sirius argued as one, and it was a rather intimidating experience to say the least.

"Enough, Granger," Snape said as he and Sirius came barging into her room that evening, bearing a broken-down quill and placing it on her desk. "It isn't your call. The Portkey stays in here."

Hermione frowned, though otherwise raised no more objections. "Thank you," she said stonily, and pulled a book in front of her face under the pretense of reading. Then, she peeked discreetly around the side of the book cover to watch Snape as he briefly touched the quill, muttered a few incoherent words, and then exited the room.

What she did not see was the wary look that passed on Sirius's face as he glanced back and forth between Snape and Hermione. There was something different about the two of them that he could not quite grasp.

But he was determined to figure it out.

* * *

Things went relatively back to normal in Pruitt cottage over the next week. At first, there had remained a bit of tension between Hermione and both men of the house. Snape was nearly always shut up in his room or down in the basement, and she was still not on easy speaking terms with Sirius so did not go out of her way to seek his company.

Hermione tried to release the owl the next day, when the storm had calmed down, except it refused to leave her arm, sidling up to her shoulder and nuzzling her neck until, with a giggle, she decided that it could stay a little while longer. Though it had the most shocking blue eyes, which were often unsettling to her, Hermione simply wrote it off as a reaction to the fact that she had never before seen a snowy owl with such interesting coloring.

Besides, she liked having a companion with whom to study. Since she didn't have Crookshanks around anymore (she wondered if the boys were taking good care of him), she was grateful for a warm little body to stroke and to coo over, and to keep her company through the long nights. After all, she was spending an awful lot of time locked away in the study — doing research, testing ingredients, and working relentlessly towards her ultimate goal of a new branch of quick-heal potions.

Unsurprisingly, this kept her up late into the night — and even when she did sleep, she would oftentimes wake up minutes later, her mind suddenly possessed by a new, miraculous idea. Then she would throw on her robe and race downstairs to the study to write it all out.

Whenever she chanced a glance in the mirror, the girl she saw looked frazzled and tired — but there was a light of excitement behind her eyes that could not be ignored. Finally, she was starting to accomplish something worthwhile! Something that would actually have an impact on the rest of the world. For so long she had simply learned about other people's discoveries and inventions, and now it was finally time to make her own.

After a while, though intense and bright at first, that excitement began to fade. Despite her hard work and careful research, nothing Hermione tried was working. Time after time she tested the potion on herself, and time after time the small pricks and cuts she made on her arms remained exactly the same. (She did, however, discover a few interesting side effects — including an alarmingly violent case of the hiccups that refused to go away for a day and a half).

Meanwhile, she avoided Snape like the plague, and he did likewise. She supposed that it probably would have been extremely helpful to discuss her ideas for the potion with an actual Potions Master, but she felt loath to share her research — she wanted to be independent, and to make her own mistakes. Not to mention, of course, the fact that she was pretty sure Snape would take one look at her failed attempts and laugh right in her face (the Verbena incident was proof enough of that).

So, in the interest of her rather waning sanity, Hermione decided that she should probably do her best to avoid the possibility of such an encounter, and struggle along in solitude.

* * *

Severus itched at his jaw irritably. Now he remembered why he never grew in a beard — it was ruddy uncomfortable.

The house was quiet as Severus left his room and walked down the hall towards the stairs. He wasn't exactly hungry, but he wanted to get his food before the other occupants of the cottage showed up. Avoidance was always the best way to deal with a problem, in his opinion, and so far, it seemed to be working just fine.

Severus could hear the shower running in the bathroom as he approached it along the hall. Just when he was about to pass, there came a shrill scream from inside. He stopped, and the door burst open. Amidst a cloud of steam emerged a sopping wet Hermione Granger, wearing nothing but a towel and a thoroughly nauseated expression.

"Oh, Professor!" she squealed as she saw Severus, pointing blindly behind her as she darted into the hall. "Please you—_Kill it_, for Heaven's sake, you've got to kill it! _Please _kill it!"

Severus stood in shocked confusion for only a split-second, and then an enormous cockroach scuttled out of the doorway and along the wall, its antennas waving wildly back and forth, its wings fluttering noisily.

Granger let out unearthly shriek. "THERE IT IS! Professor, _please_!"

Severus could hardly breathe for laughing. He took off his shoe and aimed a throw, but missed entirely because of the tears that were clouding his eyes. "You'd face down a Death Eater," he gasped. "But you're scared of an insect!" He was absolutely beside himself.

Granger gave a great big shudder as the roach scuttled away towards Severus's end of the hall. "_I don't like them_," she said adamantly, in a low voice, as though if it heard her, the cockroach might come charging back at her in defense of its honor. "I mean. I try not to be a _girl _about it all the time, or whatever, but I just… And it's not funny," she pouted, tucking the towel tighter around herself and pulling the wet hair out of her face.

That's when it happened. Suddenly, Severus wasn't laughing anymore. Before he knew what he was doing, without knowing how he even got there, Severus had Granger trapped against the wall, his forearms on either side of her head and his face a mere inch from hers. He could smell the soap off her skin, the shampoo radiating from her damp curls and he could feel her knees trembling against his shins. He pressed up against her. She turned her head upwards, her big brown eyes all round and filled with an expression that he simply could not get enough of. Want.

No one ever wanted him.

They wanted him _gone_ most of the time, but they never wanted _him_.

The thought of this brilliant, spirited, passionate young woman pining for him, lusting after him, wanting him, was intoxicating. Severus leaned in closer, his whole body hyper-aware of every move she made—the way her breath quickened, her chest heaving, the water rolling down her cheeks and her neck, between her breasts, the way her mouth was parted slightly in what he keenly hoped was anticipation.

A mere moment later, Severus pulled sharply back. They had made a deal, and he needed to keep it. He had made Granger promise that the relationship would end the moment Black returned, and like it or not, lust-driven insanity or not, he had to keep his end of that promise as well. Besides, now that he thought about it, he actually rather liked the idea of leaving her feeling a bit frustrated, wanting more. It gave him this perverse sense of power — this different sort of power that he had never known before.

"Good day, Miss Granger," he said pertly, giving her a slight nod, and promptly walking away.

There was a moment of silence, and then, "Ooooh, you're _impossible_!" Granger snarled.

Severus grunted as he felt his own shoe thrown, rather viciously, at his retreating back. He turned around just in time to see Granger disappear back into the bathroom and slam the door behind her. He chuckled to himself all the way to the kitchen.

* * *

Hermione threw down her quill with a barely suppressed wail of frustration.

No matter what she tried, the potion refused to work, and now she had gone and ruined another whole batch beyond repair by adding the essence of Milkweed too soon.

Her head was aching and her eyes were itchy and tired. All of her insides had felt strung into a tight tangle of knots since that episode with Snape in the hallway, and she found it almost impossible to focus on anything when her mind kept flickering back and forth between intense longing and intense annoyance.

Hermione's stomach grumbled. She was hungry, and even though she knew that this was relatively the time around which Snape usually got his dinner, she did not care. She was tired of avoiding him, and tired of him avoiding her.

"That's it," she said through clenched teeth, giving the desk a quick pound with her fist. "I'm sick of this! All this _hiding _is getting ridiculous."

Hermione marched downstairs with every intention of bursting into the kitchen with a well-prepared tirade about Snape's foolishness. But, on her way past the basement door, she heard a compelling melody from down below. Her bravado faltered, and she paused.

She reached for the door, turned away, turned back, turned away again, and then, with a frustrated sigh and shake of the head, she finally opened the door and strode boldly inside.

Snape stopped playing and looked up the instant Hermione entered.

She stood at the base of the stairs and put her hands on her hips. "That was rather a juvenile thing for _you_, don't you think?"

"Hardly," Snape growled, turning his eyes to the black and white keys in front of him, though he made no move to play them. "I do, however, apologize for teasing you. It was unprovoked. Now, go back upstairs before Black finds you here."

"Sirius is taking a shower," she replied simply.

Snape still did not turn his gaze from the piano. "Oh," he grunted.

Taking a deep breath and clearing her throat a bit nervously (for, despite everything that had passed between them, being in close proximity to Snape still made her a bit nervous), Hermione approached the piano bench and sat down beside him.

Snape remained as still as a statue.

"You know," Hermione began quietly. "I thought that this would be easy. I could just ignore you and pretend like nothing happened — after all, I have become quite practiced at it—"

Snape's eyes flickered briefly in her direction.

"Only, I can't stop thinking about…" She rolled her eyes. "I can't concentrate, you see, and I wanted desperately to—"

"If this is how you are going to react after only a week, Granger, then how do you suppose you are going to last the rest of the term?"

It took all of Hermione's self-restraint to keep from reaching out and taking up his hand in hers, or leaning against his side, for she so dearly wanted to touch him. She was afraid, though, that if she broke "the rules" again, he might leave. And she still wanted to talk. "School is different," she replied. "At school I have friends to talk to, and school work, and classes, and I only see you once or twice a day. Here there is very little to occupy my time — and for Heaven's sake, we sleep right down the hall from each other! Forgive me if I find that a little distracting."

"Forgive _me _if I don't think that you being 'distracted' is just cause to endanger your life—"

Hermione scoffed irritably. "Endanger my life, indeed. You just don't want Sirius to find out."

"No, I don't want Black to find out — satisfied?"

"No."

"Of course not. And what _would _satisfy you, Miss Granger?"

"You know perfectly well what — and would you stop calling me Miss Granger? Sirius isn't even here."

"Even so, I'd rather not risk—"

"You worry too much, you know that?"

Snape gave Hermione a very shocked look. "I worry t—Well, if that's not the most hypocritical thing I've ever—"

"Oh, fine," she snapped. "It's just that I don't understand why we have to keep pretending like this, even when there's no one around. It all seems so stupid. Why can't we just…" Hermione trailed off when she realized that Snape's expression was no longer harsh or even angry. It was softer. Not sad or anything (that was beyond his radar), but… softer.

"I was under the impression that you trusted my judgment," he said simply, the tone in his voice suggesting that he did not think this impression very accurate.

_Oh, fucking hell, so he's playing the trust card, is he?_ Hermione thought irritably. _How just like a sneaky, manipulative little Slytherin! The Sorting Hat certainly knew what it was doing with him._

"Of course I trust you," Hermione said sharply. "It's just that I… that I…" She trailed off yet again as an expression of unguarded anxiety crossed Snape's face at her dismissive tone. Was he really that worried about Sirius finding out? Hermione took a breath. "Of course I trust you," she repeated, this time with much more conviction. "It's just that if I had known… I mean, we never really had the chance to… That last kiss wasn't exactly…"

"Another kiss? Is that what this is all about?"

Hermione was taken aback by the frankness of Snape's words — and even more taken aback when he did not even wait for her reply before wrapping his hand around her neck and pulling her face to his, and capturing her lips, her breath, and her heart all in one.

One thing was for sure — she certainly did seem to bring out the impulsive in him!

Hermione was fast growing to love the feel of his mouth, warm and soft against her own, his whiskery jaw rough against her cheek. She sighed with pleasure as he pressed her up against the piano and there was a dull smatter of notes as her backside connected with the keys. Snape moved in so close, she could feel the heat off his body. Snape's hands found their way to her hips, her waist, at once pushing her against the piano, and the next moment pulling at her dress, pulling her towards him, pulling the fabric upwards so his hand could find the bare skin of her thigh. Eventually his wandering caresses traveled all the way up until his thumb just barely brushed the bottom curve of her breast… And then, as though suddenly realizing what his hand was doing, Snape jerked it away.

For some reason, this made Hermione giggle. Was the infamous Professor Snape shy of second base?

Snape pulled out of the kiss the instant he felt her laughing against his mouth and was just beginning to form the words, "What's so fun—" when he was immediately interrupted.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? GET OFF OF HER, YOU SICK BASTARD!"

Sirius stood at the head of the stairs, his eyes bugging out of his head, his face scarlet, and his mouth distorted into an expression of intense and utter disgust.

There was a long moment of silence, and then, "I told you," Snape growled in Hermione's ear.

* * *

There had been at least half an hour of heated, vicious arguing following that fateful moment, in which both Sirius and Snape very nearly turned their wands on each other (but a frantic shout from Hermione caused them to remember their strict limitations). Thankfully, no punches were thrown — though Hermione thought it an absolute miracle. Sirius was beside himself with horror and anger, yelling over and over again about the hypocrisy of Snape's actions. He had not forgotten the night that Snape told him off for a 'supposed' affair with Hermione.

Snape simply retorted with his usual stinging comments, though, to Hermione's immense surprise, he did not deny Sirius's accusations. While he made a pointed effort to avoid the actual confession itself that there was a relationship, or that he even had _feelings _for her, in any capacity, Hermione was touched all the same. Meanwhile, she did her very best to bring some of the heat off of Snape and onto herself, claiming adamantly that she was the one who had instigated everything, and that nothing had happened without her full consent, encouragement even. But Sirius would not hear a word of it. In fact, he wanted to go straight to Dumbledore with the whole thing. A near sobbing outburst from Hermione was the only thing that managed to silence him.

"Please not yet!" she had cried. "Please don't tell Dumbledore. Nobody can know."

It was then that she quickly explained the circumstances that Snape had relayed to her on that early morning nearly two weeks ago — all about the Death Eaters and Dumbledore's "real" reason for why she was hidden.

Unable to bear the re-telling of this bit of information, Snape took his leave of the room at last — with Sirius's furious eyes following him all the way.

It was not long before Sirius lost interest in Hermione's hypothetical tale of Death Eaters tormenting her for information from Snape, and instead requested (demanded) that she go to the library to work on her studies while he "had a word with the Professor."

Hermione did not like the sound of his tone, but she did not want to push her luck. She had finally managed to coax Sirius into a semi-if-not-calm-then-relatively-coherent state, though he still looked an inch away from another colorful explosion.

So, nervously, Hermione did as Sirius said and went to her little study to once more attempt to focus on the development of her potion. Seeing as everything she had done so far in this vein, had resulted only in dead ends, she was less than enthused about this prospect.

She thought that the warm company of her owl friend might do her some good, but for some reason, it too was acting distant and standoffish, simply glaring at her with its cold blue eyes far away on a high shelf.

"Fine!" she snapped. "If you find my company to be so distasteful, then why don't you go downstairs! Sirius and _the Professor _are having a grand old argument. Maybe that will be more entertaining for you."

To her immense surprise, the owl blinked once, threw a pointed glance at Hermione's work desk (as though making a silent comment on her lack of progress) and then did exactly as she said. It leapt off the bookcase with an irritable screech and then soared out the door.

"Fine!" she said again, slamming the door closed behind it.

Now that she was thoroughly agitated, Hermione was determined to find something to occupy her hands. She saw a half-diced bit of ginger root, and even though she was completely unsure as to what the addition of this ingredient would even do to her already painfully complicated potion, she decided to finish cutting it up anyway.

As Hermione went to pick up the knife, she noticed something clinging to the back of her hand. It was a strand of hair. Her first instinct was to shake it off, but then she noticed what color it was and she stopped. It was gold, not brown, and now that she thought about it she was pretty sure that she could _feel _it, in a way, through her skin — all the way to the very tips of her fingers. It was almost like a constant, electric thrill (though much dimmer than the shock she usually experienced). As she stared at it, not quite sure why this affected her so, her mind slowly but surely began to form a wild, impulsive, brilliant idea.

Was this it? Was this the secret she had been waiting for?

With her heart hammering in her chest, Hermione very carefully reached out and picked up the strand of hair, instantly aware of the hum that it made against her fingertips — a warm, gentle buzz. She paused briefly as she held it over the green tar-like contents of her cauldron. "Do something miraculous," she whispered. Then, without any further deliberation, she dropped it in.

There was a great flash of light and an enormous plume of thick, yellow smoke billowed from the cauldron, shimmering and sparkling with an almost overwhelming splendor. Then, almost as suddenly as it appeared, the smoke vanished, leaving behind a potion that was now a blinding, brilliant yellow-orange color. It crackled and popped as though emitting hundreds of miniscule fireworks off of its roiling surface.

Hermione stared at it wide-eyed, her jaw slack with shock. That had certainly been dramatic — but what had it done? For some inane reason, she had the overpowering feeling that whatever she had just created was very special.

There was nothing else to do but try it and find out.

The tiny voice of reason in the back of her head (which was usually very loud, but seemed to have shrunk quite a bit since she first set out on this adventure) was screaming at her not to do anything stupid—like drink the potion herself. She ignored it, her attention still transfixed by the brilliant, sparkling concoction in front of her. She began to realize that the hum she heard and felt was not just her adrenaline—it was coming from the cauldron itself. In fact, the very air around her seemed to vibrate and crackle with a mysterious power.

Was this… her life energy? Was this what Dumbledore had been talking about? That "energy" she had so unexpectedly given to Snape?

_Largitio_. Hermione mouthed the word silently.

Old magic. Ancient magic. Not even Dumbledore knew the full details of its power.

Maybe she was about to uncover some of those details right now…

So, with her whole body shaking and her breathing nearly non-existent, Hermione carefully dipped a small beaker into the potion and filled it with barely even a mouthful of the orange, crackling liquid. She set it carefully on the table before taking the tip of a silver letter opener and making a small cut on her forearm. Then she once again picked up the beaker, brought it to her lips… and downed it in one gulp.

It burned and fizzed all the way down her throat. Then, after the initial sting wore off, there was nothing.

Hermione stared long and hard at the cut on her arm, never blinking even as her eyes began to water. She willed it silently to heal, willed it to change in some way. But it remained the same.

"Bugger," she breathed at last, collapsing into her chair and feeling utterly defeated.

She leapt up a second later, however, as an extremely loud commotion suddenly came from somewhere on the other side of the house — the living room by the sound of it. There was a loud owl-like squawk, a few bangs, and then some muffled, angry voices.

Her first thought was that Sirius and Snape had finally snapped and were now officially duking it out in some sort of battle royale. Then she heard footsteps pounding at an alarming speed down the hall towards her study. A mere split second later, Sirius came bursting into the room looking extremely pale and more frightened than she had ever seen him.

Sirius opened his mouth, but before he could even say a word, there came a strangled, distant yell.

"Run, Hermione!" Snape's voice thundered through the house, and Hermione knew that it meant their hiding place had been found.

"Is it a Death—" she began to say. Sirius raced forward, snatched up her arm and began to drag her quickly towards the door.

"An _army _of them!" he gasped, his eyes wide and round, his wand gripped in a shaking fist. "We need to get to the Portkey—NOW!"

"What about Professor Snape!" Hermione replied frantically. "And how did they find us? What's—"

"I'll explain later!" Sirius barked savagely, giving her another furious pull as he sped into an almost full-out sprint towards the end of the hall and up the stairs, forcing Hermione to take them two at a time.

Already she could hear footsteps stampeding towards them down the hallway they had just exited.

Hermione knew what the plan was, she knew what she was supposed to do, but all she could think about were the images she had seen in her dreams—the images of Snape lying defenseless on the floor, curled into a defeated heap, blood everywhere, his eyes dimmed with pain…

"No!" Hermione shrieked, pulling against Sirius's grip. "I won't leave him! He'll die, we have to do something! We have to—"

Sirius rounded on her, his chest heaving and his breath as ragged as an angry bull's. "We have to do what Dumbledore says, Hermione. We'll get help and come right back — it's all we can do!"

Without waiting for a reply, Sirius turned and continued on. Within moments they reached Hermione's room, and, still unable to free herself from Sirius's superior strength, Hermione allowed herself to be dragged inside.

She could hear voices now — in the stairwell. Cries of anger, of vengeance, and cruel laughter.

Sirius led her to the Portkey, holding his hand over the broken quill. After only a moment of hesitation, Hermione followed his lead.

"On three," Sirius said, his eyes flickering nervously towards the closed door.

"But I can't just—" Hermione gasped desperately.

"One—" Sirius cut her off.

"But, Sirius, you _can't _just let him—"

"Two—"

Hermione was nearly in tears. "After all that he's done for every—"

"THREE!"

Both Hermione and Sirius lunged forward… but the sight of Snape's mangled, bleeding body flashed before Hermione's eyes once more, and with another cry of, "No!" she pulled back at the last second.

Sirius's wide, shocked eyes were the last thing she saw… and then he was gone.

Hermione was alone in a dark, vacant room.

Not for long, however; the Death Eaters were getting nearer by the second — and blasting open every single door on their way, judging by the explosive bangs and the sound of shattering wood.

Hermione did not have time for hesitation. She had made a decision, and now she needed to commit to it, fully and completely — or both she and Snape would surely be dead.

_Wand. I need my wand, _she decided.

Hermione raced to her bedside table, pulled open the drawer and snatched up her most treasured weapon, clenching it so tightly in her hand that the wood bit painfully into her palm. Then, knowing that there was no place to hide, no other place to run, Hermione raced to the windowed doors leading out onto the balcony. She threw them open and then stepped out into the night.

"Not in here — check the next one!"

Hermione's heart gave an almighty leap as she heard a man's gruff voice just outside her bedroom door. Looking frantically around, she saw a gutter pipe to her left. Jamming her wand into her mouth to free her hands, she leapt over the balcony railing and wrapped herself as best she could around the pipe. But it was so cold outside, and the metal was slick; her grip slipped, and with a barely muffled cry of terror she careened towards the ground. Her ankle twisted horribly as she landed and her wand flew out of her mouth, clattering loudly on the cobblestones a few feet away.

"Did you hear that? Down there — can you see anything? I swear I bloody heard something."

Hermione's heart gave another bone-jarring thud as she looked up and saw a huddle of dark forms leaning over the balcony. Death Eaters! Could they see her? Was it all over? She was well into the shadows, so maybe not, but it seemed like they were looking right at her. Maybe she was too far beneath them. Maybe it was too dark. Please let it be too dark!

Hermione lay as still as stone, her ankle throbbing viciously and her hands stinging painfully from the friction of the cold metal gutter.

"Did you even check for the Portkey, Goyle?" said one of the cloaked figures. "Where did Frend say it would be? A broken quill on the dresser — that's what he said, is it there?"

Hermione barely withheld a gasp. How did they know about the Portkey? How did they know exactly what it looked like, where it had been placed? Did that mean they also knew the location it was linked to? What if Sirius was headed straight for a trap!

Dozens of terrible scenarios flashed through Hermione's mind, each more fearsome than the last. None of it made any sense! How could they know?

"Well, they're obviously not here," drawled a deep, familiar voice. Lucius Malfoy's voice. "We should return to the first floor. I hope they haven't killed Snape yet — I do so wish to see the look on his face before he dies."

_Need a plan, need a plan, need a plan_, Hermione repeated in her head over and over again, as she desperately tried to ignore the image of Lucius Malfoy laughing over Snape's dead body. She watched as the dark figures slowly disappeared back inside the house, and willed herself to focus.

She needed her wand. That was always her first step. She needed to get her wand, and then she could take it from there. One step at a time.

Slowly at first, but with an ever-growing sense of urgency, Hermione pulled herself up into a kneeling position and then crawled towards the place she had last seen her wand. A cloud had passed over the moon since she had been lying on the ground, and now it was almost impossible to see anything a foot in front of her face.

Thankfully, her wand had not rolled too far, and after only a few moments of frantic groping about, her hands closed over the familiar cherrywood handle.

_Okay, next step, next step_, she thought determinedly, as she sat there in the cold of the courtyard. Apparently the temperature spell was beginning to wear off.

Hermione jumped as she heard a crash and an angry shout to her right. She turned to see a bright yellow light splashed out across the cobblestones just thirty or so feet away. It appeared to be coming from the sitting room windows. She could just see the dark shadows of three men fighting, wands out, their arms flying about as they hurled spell after spell. The window was alight with flashes of every color imaginable.

She also noticed that one shadow was separated from the other two, and that it was not quite as bulky as the others. This was a man without his wizard robes. This was a man in danger. This was Severus Snape.

With that realization, Hermione's brain finally jump-started and she threw herself back into action. _I cannot be seen_, she decided right off. That was her first priority, and already she knew precisely the way to handle it.

Closing her eyes, trying desperately to block out the sound of shattering glass and shouted spells, Hermione concentrated every bit of energy she had into transforming herself into her still rather unfamiliar Animagus form.

Swift as a flash, she felt her arms and legs shortening, her ears lengthening, her skin sprouting a thick layer of downy fur — and then it was over.

Hermione opened her eyes, blinking rapidly. This change in perspective was always hard to get used to at first, and made her feel nauseous for a good five minutes or so before she got used to it — but she didn't have the time!

_Wand_, she thought instantly, and leaned her head down to snatch it up between her enormous front teeth. _Now, MOVE, _she commanded herself.

With the stealth and agility of which only a rabbit was capable, Hermione scampered towards the fighting shadows, praying and praying that she could somehow find a way to rescue Severus. Was the element of surprise going to be enough? She was only a Seventh Year — she hardly knew anything about dark magic. And she also had no idea how many Death Eaters there even were. There had been at least four up on the balcony (which was already a distressing amount) — and by the steadily increasing number of shadows she was witnessing through the window, there had to be at least five more on the first floor. Not to mention Frend! She feared him almost as much as she feared Voldemort.

Thinking back on the battle she had witnessed in the dungeon beneath the church (it seemed so long ago, now), she already knew that Frend was equally matched with Snape, if not more powerful; there was no way that Snape would be able to defend himself against Frend _and _a dozen other Death Eaters. What did she think she was doing? She had no idea how to handle this; if anything, she might only distract Snape further.

No. Hermione shook her head furiously. She couldn't think that way. The damage was done, she missed the Portkey, she had decided she was going to save him, and she was determined to see that decision through.

What about Sirius? What about Frend knowing exactly where the Portkey had been? That was too frightening to be ignored.

_Let Sirius be alright, let Sirius be alright! Please let him find help and bring it here!_

As Hermione steadily crept towards the sitting room windows, she at last began to make out individual voices — and the spells that they were casting.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

"_Crucio!_"

"_Sectumsempra!_"

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

Hermione swallowed the very dry lump in her throat.

Merlin help her.


	18. A Mighty Struggle Part I

**Chapter Eighteen**

Hermione crept stealthily around the side of the cottage, pressed so tightly against the wall that the stone dug painfully into her shoulder. She had to get to the window, to see what was happening, assess her next step.

Hermione gave a slight jump of surprise every time a spell flew particularly close to the glass and illuminated the courtyard with a colorful flash. All too often that color was green, and Hermione's heart began to ache as she found herself faced with a terrible thought. All it took was one — just one — spell to hit its mark and Severus Snape would be gone forever.

Hermione shook her head. _Can't think about that now_, she argued firmly. _Got to find a way inside._

A few more hops, and at last she reached the edge of the window, allowing her to see inside, albeit just barely. Only half of the room was visible, but Snape happened to be included in that half. He was backed up against the far corner, ducked behind his favorite armchair with his wand arm throwing spells so quickly, Hermione had a hard time distinguishing where one spell ended and another began. There was a large gash just above Snape's left eyebrow that was bleeding freely and partially blinded him with a steady, red stream. There were also dozens of holes all over his shirt and jeans where he had clearly made some very close encounters with unknown but dangerous curses.

From what Hermione could tell, there were at least three Death Eaters down — either dead or unconscious she didn't know (nor did she care to know). One was slumped over the back of the couch nearest the window, and his squat, hulky form reminded Hermione very strongly of Crabbe. All she could see of the other two Death Eaters were a pair of unmoving legs sticking out from beneath an ottoman, and then a cloaked, crumpled heap by the fireplace.

Streaks of green light continued to zip about the room. Hermione felt her little rabbit heart patter a frantic tandem against her chest as she watched Snape just barely manage to avoid each curse in time.

At last, Snape shot his arm out from behind the armchair and aimed a well-placed flick of his wand, which, from what Hermione could hear (with her newly sensitive ears), seemed to have caused one of the Death Eater's robes to burst into flames. Immediately another cloaked figure came into view, wand out and cocked ominously, but Snape was ready for that one too. He waved his arm again and sent a small china vase soaring across the room where it shattered spectacularly on the back of the Death Eater's head. Without wasting another second, Snape then followed up with a thick jet of red light that blasted directly into the masked face, and then the man (or woman) crumpled to the ground.

Before Hermione could even begin to process this victory, two more Death Eaters appeared out of nowhere to take their fallen teammate's place, and Snape once again found himself crouched tightly against the back of the chair. Yet another two cloaked figures came into view as well and Hermione felt the pit of her stomach give a horrible, nasty lurch. There were four of them now, steadily advancing on Snape.

And Snape was getting tired.

Hermione could see the sweat matting his dark hair to his forehead, the blood that was now caked to the side of his face, and the way that every swish of his wand seemed to be getting slower, and slower, and—

Suddenly, Hermione heard the sitting room doors burst open, followed by a multitude of footsteps — which she could only assume belonged to the Death Eaters from the upper floor. Then someone spoke.

"Don't kill him, yet," sounded a deep, chilling voice.

Hermione felt her very whiskers curl with fright. It was Frend.

All of the Death Eaters currently advancing on Snape turned to look at the new arrivals, and Snape, like any self-respecting Slytherin, used this distraction to his full advantage by taking down two more robed figures with expertly aimed jets of red light.

"That's enough, Severus," Frend snapped as the remaining Death Eaters backed a few steps away from Snape's hiding place, glancing nervously around the room as though just noticing how many unmoving bodies there actually were. "You know you can't win. All you're doing now is delaying the inevitable."

Hermione watched as Snape slumped against the back of the chair, breathing heavily, his brow furrowed and his left eye sealed shut with dried blood. His wand arm fell to his side, shaking with exhaustion.

Hermione's entire body ached for him, ached to help him, but all she could do was sit against the wall, paralyzed by fear.

As another second ticked by, and Hermione continued to watch as Snape sat there, leaning against the chair, trembling and sweating, in pain, in peril, she remembered what he had told her all those long weeks ago in the dungeons bellow the church. She concentrated, steeled herself, and then reached very carefully within herself and found her resolve, her secret stash of courage.

_Can I even do magic in Animagus form?_ Hermione thought as she clenched the wand even tighter in her mouth. She was probably leaving teeth marks. _I need to open the window. I need to get inside. I need a spell to get inside, but how do I cast it?_

Finally, knowing that there wasn't much else to do but try, Hermione closed her eyes, gave her head a funny little flick, and then thought a spell as hard as she could at the window.

At first nothing happened; her wand simply emitted a few, feeble blue sparks and nothing more. A split second later, the large window gave a long, high-pitched, ominous squeak, and then shattered into a million little pieces.

_Brilliant, Hermione_, she thought fearfully as everyone within the sitting room became very, very quiet.

She heard the sound of approaching footsteps, glass crunching beneath booted heels. She had to exercise every ounce of self-restraint to keep from bolting as fast as she could in the opposite direction. Her little rabbit paws were twitching and quivering, but she stood firm, unsure of what to do, yet knowing that running away was not the answer. The footsteps continued to draw closer, and Hermione found herself wondering if she had enough time to transform back into herself and ambush whoever was approaching. But before she could reach a decision, the Death Eater currently sprawled over the couch nearest to her gave a huge groan and sat up, rubbing his head.

There was a slight pause, and then, "Was that you, Crabbe?" said someone from out of Hermione's line of vision. It sounded like Lucius Malfoy. "You blundering oaf, watch what you're doing!" he hissed. "Unless you want to bring the whole damned house down on our heads."

The still fully masked Crabbe looked around slowly as though trying very, very hard to understand exactly what had just happened. He turned his head towards the shattered window, and Hermione pressed herself tighter against the side of the house, hardly daring to breathe.

"Hm," he grumbled darkly, still rubbing his head. "Foot must've slipped, I s'pose."

As Crabbe Sr. pulled himself ungracefully to his feet, Hermione chanced a glance in Snape's direction, her heart leaping into her throat as she saw that he was now looking directly at her.

…Or was he?

In usual Snape fashion, his face betrayed nothing. Hermione had the feeling that he had not seen her, but was instead paying attention to the recently opened window. Was he thinking about escape?

_Yes_, Hermione urged him silently. _Please, Professor, don't be brave, don't take a stand — just run away. Please, just run away._

As though he could hear her very thoughts, Snape shifted his weight, tucking his legs beneath him into a crouch as though preparing to spring forward. But just when it seemed he was about to go for it, a blast of orange light exploded into the armchair in front of him and sent it hurtling out the window, where it whizzed mere inches from Hermione's trembling pink nose.

Hermione could barely see anything through all the smoke from the explosion. She heard a few yells — one of them unmistakably Snape's — and then another muffled crash as what sounded like a body thudded hard to the floor.

Finally, the smoke cleared, and the first thing that Hermione saw was Snape lying face down on the singed carpet, his arms and legs bound cruelly behind him with thick ropes.

The second thing she saw was the hulking form of Turnus Frend, standing just beside Snape's body. His tall frame looked bigger and broader than ever in the flickering light of the fireplace as he loomed over his captive. His wand was out and pointed directly at the back of Snape's head.

"Alright," Frend barked. "Enough of that rubbish." He glanced briefly over his shoulder. "You can all come out now, little girls. Professor isn't a threat anymore."

There was an explosion of indignant responses from the Death Eaters, but Frend cut them off sharply.

"Where are Black and the girl—Did they Portkey out?"

"Yes," came a gruff reply.

"Fine. The Dark Lord is already waiting for them at their destination. Once he finishes them off, he will join us here."

Snape snapped his head up, his face pinched and white, and let out a very low, strangled sound of distress.

Hermione gave out her own nervous squeak as well. _Oh no – Sirius!_

Frend merely laughed. "Frightened for your girlfriend, Professor?" He gave the back of Snape's head a cruel prod with his wand. "Well, perhaps you should have been smarter, perhaps you should pay more attention to the pets you allow into your home."

Hermione's thoughts were doing somersaults in her head. _Pets? What does that mean? The only animal we... we ever… Oh, he couldn't be. _Hermione looked through the window, but she wasn't seeing the sitting room — instead she was remembering a particular pair of unsettling blue eyes. Ones that were sharp and icy, cold, bottomless, empty. How could she not have recognized them? Turnus Frend had been the owl the entire time. It didn't seem possible.

Snape seemed to be doing his own bit of thinking as well. His body was very still, so still in fact that he looked as though he were frozen in time. His breathing was calm again and his good eye was open and alert. "Explain," he growled into the carpet.

"Why should I?" Frend replied, smiling. He was clearly enjoying having one of the Wizarding World's most dangerous men at his mercy.

Snape offered no reply. He simply lay there, bound and helpless, yet with a stony calm that Hermione couldn't help but admire.

Frend began to circle Snape, much like a vulture spying its next meal. "Suppose I tell you," he hissed, his dark eyebrows raised, his wide mouth still twisted into a sardonic smile. "Suppose I tell you just how stupid you — AH!" Frend cut himself off with a hiss, and, along with every other occupant in the room, slapped a hand to his right forearm.

Snape, unable to perform this action, merely jerked and scrunched up his face into a clear expression of discomfort.

"The signal," Frend snapped, turning to face the mass of robed figures behind him. "The Dark Lord must be facing resistance."

"Who should go to his aid?" said a tall figure in the back, turning his masked face nervously from side to side.

"All of you," Frend replied instantly. "All of you must go."

"What about…" One of the Death Eaters in the front row gestured feebly to the two unconscious heaps on either side of the sitting room (the most recent two Death Eaters Snape had downed had already been revived by their fellows).

"Leave them," Frend snapped. "Rosier's dead." He indicated the pair of legs sticking out from beneath the ottoman. "And Travers is…" Frend walked over and nudged the bundle of robes by the fireplace with his toe. "…incapacitated, to say the least. In any case, they can't help. So go! All of you!"

The man whose voice sounded like Lucius Malfoy stepped forward. "And who will remain with Snape? You? I think we all should have the chance to take our turn at—"

"The Dark Lord would only call if the situation were truly perilous, Malfoy." Frend sneered and gestured to Snape's prostrate form. "Clearly I have the situation under control — so, yes, I will stay. After what I've been through in the past few weeks, I think I deserve it. Besides, you couldn't bring him down with eight of you all together. I shudder to think what would happen if just one of you were left alone with him."

Lucius Malfoy made no move to go, his wand still raised, furious at being ordered around. A moment later, a smaller robed figure pushed through the others and put a hand on Mr. Malfoy's arm.

"Leave it, Lucius," the figure pleaded, tugging on his sleeve. It was Mrs. Malfoy.

"Foreign scum," Mr. Malfoy eventually growled, but lowered his wand and turned away. "Let's go, then!" he snapped viciously at those surrounding him as he stormed out the door. "We must answer our Master's call."

Within seconds, all of the robed figures — save the bodies of Rosier and Travers — filed out of the room, and soon Hermione looked up to see several dark figures zoom by overhead, whether on broomsticks or not, she couldn't tell. Then she turned her full attention back to the sitting room.

"Where was I?" Frend purred.

"Revealing the wonders of your master plan, I believe," Snape snarled from the floor.

Frend chuckled. "If I were you, Professor, I would be a little more grateful."

"And how the bloody hell do you figure that?"

"Because I _could_ just let you sit here, wondering how I did it all — hating yourself for not being clever enough to figure it out." Frend crouched down so that he could look Snape in the eyes. "But then I wouldn't get to see your face when I told you who was _really _responsible for giving you away."

Hermione's breathing all but stopped entirely and she stretched out her long ears as far as she could, focusing every inch of her attention on Frend's next words.

Snape merely stared back impassively. "Well?" he growled simply.

Frend stood upright again, taking a moment to roll his wand lazily between his fingers. "Do you know — it was actually by chance that I even found you at all. There I was, sitting in my office, wondering if I would ever hear from you again, when who should appear but my informant at the Ministry — yes, I have my _own _informants. At first I thought he had merely come to tell me of his failure — after all, you do disappear so well, Severus, and I was all ready to deal out the appropriate punishment…Then he told me something that I did not expect.

"He knew where you were, Professor. Exactly where you were — down to the very square-foot. Do you know how he knew this?"

"I haven't a clue," Snape deadpanned. Hermione could see his hands moving almost imperceptibly behind his back. He was trying to free the ropes.

_Keep him talking_, Hermione urged silently. _Keep him distracted — you can do it_. If only Snape were closer to the window, she might be able to sneak up and gnaw off the ropes herself. Maybe she could cast a disillusion charm. The room was dark enough — perhaps her shadow would go unnoticed. Convinced now that it was probably the best plan she was going to get, Hermione crept slowly backwards along the wall, out of sight of the window. She was just about to transform back into herself in order to perform the disillusion spell, when Frend said something that made her stop instantly in her tracks.

"Hermione Granger," Frend's slippery voice sounded through the night. "A Miss Hermione Jean Granger's wand had been used, several times… and not on Hogwarts Grounds. I couldn't believe my ears — a wand slip, Severus? _You_? I had thought that surely setting up radar on your wands would be a waste of time, that surely you would have warned that Muggle filth to take proper precautions, and that _surely _by the time I arrived where you were hiding, you would have realized her mistake and been long gone…"

Hermione's mind raced and raced to figure out what Frend was talking about. When had she used her wand? Had someone else used it? Had Sirius used it? The only time she could remember even holding her wand was when… Hermione stifled a gasp. That night. That night she had the nightmare about Snape being tortured. That night she had thought that Voldemort was in the house.

Hermione's eyes widened. She had used her wand against Snape's door. He had erected some sort of wandless wards that kept her out (perhaps much like the invisible walls in the dungeons below the church), but _she _had used her wand — without even giving it a second thought.

Even in rabbit form Hermione could feel her eyes prick with tears. How could she have been so stupid?

For a moment, Hermione was glad she was out of sight of the window, so that she couldn't see the look on Snape's face. But Frend could, and judging by the delight in his voice, he was enjoying it.

"I suppose she didn't tell you, then, did she? Naughty girl, lying to you like that. But, honestly, Sev, she's a Mudblood — you should've known better."

_I didn't lie!_ Hermione screamed in her head. _I didn't tell you because I didn't know! _

There was a long pause. Snape did not respond.

So Frend continued. "Even then, I thought it was a waste of time, I thought that you would be gone… but I was wrong. I went to the location my informant had given me, and I found this cottage. It was unplottable, of course, but your girlfriend's little slip gave me exact coordinates, so it didn't even matter — what a waste! I found you in seconds! However, once I was here, I discovered that there were wards, powerful wards, against enemies. Perhaps even you were unaware of their complexity. In any case, I could not come within fifty yards of the place. But I was determined to get inside. I could have called for the others, but what good would they have done me? None of them have an Animagus form, and they would only draw attention, only get in the way. Now that I had found you, I couldn't bear it if you caught on and escaped again. So I waited.

"I was just about to give up when I saw that you were receiving owls. Mail, Severus! _The Daily Prophet_, for Merlin's sake! It was then that I realized I could trick the house into letting me in. With a newspaper in hand, I would no longer appear to be a suspicious enemy, but a delivery bird. Then the blizzard came, and I almost failed, unsure if a Prophet owl would even fly in such weather. But once again, I got lucky. The bird came. I killed it, took its paper, and then just… soared right through those worthless wards as easy as you please."

"So what stopped you, then?" Snape said suddenly, his voice sounding strange, angry. "If you were already in the house, what stopped you from attacking!"

"Oh, Severus," Frend tutted in response. "You must have gathered by now that I never do anything until I know that I will get something out of it first. I had to make sure that you cared for the girl. I had to make sure that she would be a weakness for you. I picked up a hint of it the first moment I saw you two together — but I must admit, Severus, you are a devilish hard bugger to read, and I wanted to be absolutely certain that she was a liability for you. So, as disgusting as it was, I cozzied up to that Muggle-born rat, hoping that if she thought fondly of me, the wards would not recognize my true intentions and expel me from the house — after all, I was a delivery bird no longer. Once I was inside, I found those wards much easier to figure out, and day by day, I began to disable them."

Frend paused. The next time he spoke his voice was noticeably more irritated. "But you and that brat played one hell of a game with each other, I must say. Her feelings for you, Professor, were undeniable — she was always looking after you with that nauseating expression on her face, like a love-sick puppy. But you betrayed very little. I had the idea that she meant something to you — but I was not sure if that something was strong enough to undo you. Then, one day, what did I find in her room but a letter… from you. She kept it under her pillow — isn't that sweet? I'm sure you already know what it says, so I won't bore you with the details. Needless to say, I had found my proof. I knew you cared for her, she for you, and I was all ready to present this evidence to our — to my — Master and claim my just reward. Only, quite unexpectedly, I found out something else… Did you know that your dratted little apprentice was brewing, Severus?"

Hermione gulped.

"Did you know _what _she was brewing? Well I did… to a point, anyway. And I was very curious. I decided to wait a bit longer — to see where this potion went, and if it might prove useful to me. Admittedly, she got quite far, for a Mudblood, and I was starting to feel hopeful. But then Sirius Black found out about your perverted romance and had to wreck it all! He threatened to go to Dumbledore, and I couldn't have that. So then—"

"I know what you did then, you slimy bast—"

"_Crucio_!"

Hermione leapt nearly a foot in the air as Frend shouted the spell and Snape's clipped yelp of pain echoed out into the night.

"How does it feel, Severus?" Frend crowed over Snape's screams. "Knowing what a blundering idiot you saved — what a lying, dim-witted little Mudblood you sacrificed your entire _identity_ for! All this because of a simple _wand slip, _it's embarrassing! _Crucio_!"

As Frend continued to heap abuse, both verbal and physical, upon Snape, Hermione tried in vain to block out the screams and concentrate instead on the task at hand. Now that Snape was undoubtedly writhing on the floor in pain, she knew that there was no way she would be able to gnaw his ropes free without Frend noticing — disillusion charm or not. Then again, now that Frend was by himself and there were no other Death Eaters to get in the way (assuming that Travers remained 'incapacitated'), was it too much to hope that perhaps she could take him by surprise? She didn't even have to go through the window — now that everyone was gone, she could go around the house and in through the front door.

Hermione winced as Snape let out another muffled cry.

Well, whatever she was going to do, she needed to do it fast. Not only to spare Snape Frend's cruel torture, but also because — Merlin forbid! — Voldemort himself could show up at any minute. And if he did show up, that meant that Sirius was dead — and possibly others whom she cared for as well, if Voldemort and his followers were facing "resistance."

_One step at a time_, Hermione told herself, stubbornly blocking out all thoughts about the battle she knew must be going on somewhere in Hogsmeade at that very moment.

Still in Animagus from, Hermione then turned and sprinted as fast as she could around the outside of the cottage and up the front steps. As silent as a shadow, she flew through the open door, down a dark hallway, and then another. She skidded to a halt just outside the double doors of the sitting room, which, unfortunately, were only slightly cracked. A quickly as she dared, Hermione nosed her way through the small opening, praying that the hinges wouldn't creak and give her away — though, between Frend's taunting and Snape's outcries of pain (which tugged viciously at her heartstrings), she probably could have flung the doors wide open and no one would have heard.

"Can you believe the Granger bitch broke my leg?" Frend was saying now, bent low over Snape's writhing body so he could dig the point of his wand into his ribcage. "The Dark Lord wouldn't let me put it right for two days as punishment for letting you escape. You couldn't fathom the pain."

Hermione scampered quickly from the doorway and dove back behind a small sofa. She had to pass very close to Rosier's body on the way, and she nearly fainted when she saw that his eyes were open and looking directly at her. But they were glazed and empty. _He's dead_, she reassured herself. Though it wasn't much of a reassurance. She couldn't help but wonder if it was Snape who had killed him, or a wayward spell from one of his own comrades. She didn't really care to know.

"_Crucio!_"

Hermione gritted her teeth and peeked out to see Snape jerking back and forth on the rug, his hands and legs still tied, Frend still jabbing him viciously with his wand.

She needed to act fast. She needed to act _now_.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Hermione ducked back into her hiding place and tried as hard as she possibly could to focus on her transformation. If she was going to attack Frend, she would need every advantage she could get — and that meant a hand to hold her wand and a voice to say her spells.

It took a much longer time than she would have hoped to block out the screaming. After much frustration and wrestling with her nerves, Hermione eventually managed to reach the state of calm that she needed in order to transform back into her rightful form. She became herself again.

"So… do they… tease you?"

Both Frend and Hermione seemed to be equally surprised that Snape was in any condition to talk.

Frend recovered his surprise quickly. "What do you mean?" he asked, most of the amusement gone from his voice. "Tease me about what?"

Snape paused a moment to regain his breath before speaking. "About getting your arse kicked by a little girl."

An explosion of conflicting emotions ignited instantly within Hermione. One was sheer pleasure at hearing the pride in Snape's voice, but the other was anger at him for provoking Frend when he was clearly in no position to do so. _Severus, you idiot, _Hermione thought, closing her eyes in anticipation of Frend's inevitable outburst.

She did not have to wait long.

There was a loud grunt and sharp crack as Frend's foot connected solidly with the front of Snape's face. Blood gushed instantly from his nose and pooled on the carpet beneath his head as Frend made a loud noise of outrage.

"Not funny now, is it!" There was another solid thud and answering grunt as Frend kicked Snape hard in the stomach.

_Go_! Hermione heard herself command through her shock. _While he's distracted! This is it! You have to go!_

And with that, Hermione stood from her hiding place as quickly and silently as she could. Taking a deep breath, she raised her wand, prepared the word she needed at the front of her mouth, and was just about to let it out, when Snape caught sight of her between Frend's legs… and gasped.

Snape realized his mistake instantly and schooled his expression, but the damage was done.

Frend turned around just as Hermione began the necessary wand movements. Right as she cried "_STUPEFY_!" Frend flicked his wand, and her spell died harmlessly in the air.

Frend laughed, utter shock apparent on his face. "What a surprising snake you are! Have you been hiding here this whole time, you filthy thing?"

"_Stupif_—" Hermione tried again, but Frend was far too quick.

"_Incendio_!" he hissed.

Hermione shrieked and ducked back down behind the sofa as an enormous fireball suddenly erupted out of the tip of Frend's wand. She was blown backwards from the impact as the couch burst into flames. But she scrambled back up again quicker than a flash. Without wasting a single moment, she tore off towards one of the two remaining armchairs for cover.

"_Stupif — Immobulu — Expelliarm_—" Hermione threw hex after hex over her shoulder as she ran, but each time the spell died in her mouth — Frend blocked everything, and did so with an effortless ease that sent thrills of fear through Hermione's body. She was hopelessly out-matched; it was clear that Frend was merely toying with her.

Meanwhile, Snape struggled harder than ever at his bindings. "Granger, you stupid twit!" he shouted over the noise of their battle. "Get out of here!"

"_Diffindo_!"

Hermione leapt aside again as the chair she had just come to hide behind split completely in half with one almighty rip. Through a shower of feathers and little pieces of fabric, she took off again towards the other side of the room.

She was seized with an idea. Waving her wand wildly as she ran, Hermione pointed to one of the large bookcases on the wall and shouted "_Accio bookshelf_!" For once, Frend did not respond quickly enough. He turned around just as the thick plank of wood slammed into the side of his face with a loud, hideous crack, and then he crumpled to the ground, cradling his head.

"You're dead, Mudblood!" Frend growled into his palms.

Hermione was halfway across the room when her foot caught unexpectedly on something heavy and she tumbled to the floor. It was Travers's body. Now that she was up close, Hermione could see what had made him so incapacitated. His eyes were gone, as though they had been literally ripped from their sockets, and his whole face was bruised and bloody. Had a spell done that? Whose spell had it been? With another shriek of terror, Hermione wrenched herself away and scrambled back to her feet.

Frend was back on his feet as well.

Trying to ignore the image of Travers's mutilated face and of who might be responsible, Hermione ran as fast and as hard as she could for the chair. Just as she slid behind it on her knees, Frend finally regained his composure and shouted, "_Avada Kedavra_!"

The white-hot wind of the spell passed just inches from Hermione's face. The proximity of it sent painful shockwaves throughout her entire body, like a sonic blast that jarred the very marrow of her bones. She could hear a sharp ringing in her ears, and something warm and sticky began to dribble steadily down her chin.

Hermione reached up to find that her nose was bleeding, profusely. Her vision swam sickeningly as she looked down at her fingers coated in blood, and the thick red blotches already gathering on the carpet beneath her.

"You can't kill her, Frend!" Snape was yelling. "The Dark Lord forbids it!"

"Shut up!" Frend snarled back, his left hand still cradling the side of his swollen face.

Hermione's own head felt like it was about to split in two. Every joint in her body ached like it was on fire, as though the shockwave from the spell had made them swell almost to bursting. That had been close. Far too close. But it didn't matter, because any second Frend was going to say the curse again and there was no way that she was going to get away this time. She could barely even hold her wand anymore, let alone run about the room; her body was shaking so badly. _Help me, Severus,_ Hermione wanted to cry, but she knew that he couldn't. She knew that he was just as trapped and hurt as she was.

"_Reducto! Incarcerous!_"

With a quick one-two, Frend obliterated the armchair in an explosion of springs and fabric, and shot thick ropes out of the tip of his wand.

Hermione grunted with pain as the ropes bound her hands and legs roughly behind her, causing her to fall face first onto the carpet.

Frend was on her in an instant, grabbing hold of her and dragging her cruelly across the room by her hair. He threw her against the smoking remains of the sofa.

"Wh-what are you going to—" Hermione began to stammer. Frend cut her off with a quick kick to the gut. Then he leaned down and maneuvered her ropes so that her legs were still tied but stuck straight out in front of her.

"Time for a little pay-back," he hissed, pointing his wand directly at Hermione's exposed left calf. Then, without any further warning, he hissed, "_Osfrangio_!" and Hermione screamed as she felt her shinbone shatter.

"You coward!" Snape spat savagely. "You bloody coward!"

Hermione's vision swam as the whole world seemed to lurch and heave beneath her. The pain was incredible, shooting up and down her leg in sharp, rhythmic spasms. Any second, she knew she was going to pass out. But one thing kept her hanging onto consciousness. One thing kept her clinging stubbornly on with tooth and nail. Her wand was still in her hand. Frend did not notice that she still had her weapon. Despite the blazing pain in her joints, Hermione tightened her slipping grip and prepared herself to keep fighting. She would not give up, even if it killed her. Even though it probably _would _kill her.

Perhaps this determination showed on her face, or perhaps it was simply by chance, but just then, Snape said the one thing that Frend needed to hear. "Tired of me already?" he mocked, with just the right mixture of challenge and sarcasm infused into his voice.

Frend rose to the bait. "I'll never tire of torturing you, fucking _traitor_!" he spat, at last turning back to his original captive.

Without losing a single moment, Hermione angled her wand, shut her eyes, and whispered a spell. Within seconds hot flames began to lick against the insides of her wrists and across her palms, but she didn't cry out. This had to be done. She would only get one chance at this, so she had to make it count. She had to do this right or both of them would be dead.

After what seemed like an eternity, but couldn't have been more than a few seconds, Hermione felt the charred ropes fall from her wrists and her arms swung free. Frend was bent over Snape once more and Hermione steeled her resolve, knowing that she was almost out of time. All at once she gathered up what was left of her waning strength, pulled herself half-upright onto the cushion of the couch, and cast a spell with all her might. "_EXPELLIARM_—"

Frend turned. "_AVADA KEDAVRA_!"

She wasn't quick enough.

Hermione gasped as her world was enveloped in a sharp, blinding green light. Everything seemed to be in slow-motion as her senses dimmed, her vision receded, her breath left her body, and she crumpled back to the ground, with Snape's wail of anguish echoing in her ears.

Then there was nothing.

* * *

Something very fragile within Severus Snape's heart burst apart in that moment as he watched Hermione Granger fall. What that fragile thing was, he did not know. All he knew was that it hurt. More than anything he could remember, because it was so sudden and unfair. How could anyone prepare for this? It left him utterly breathless, gasping for air, as though he had just been kicked very hard in the gut. He dimly noticed that tears were running down his cheeks, but he didn't care. "No," he breathed, unable to tear his gaze away from Hermione's still, vacant form. Her eyes were open and empty, staring at the ceiling with a sad, fathomless expression. So much life, and love—that intelligence and passion, that brilliant _potential_—all whisked away in the blink of an eye. Gone. Hermione Granger, everything she had ever learned and said, all the bright things she had yet to do... all gone.

"BASTARD!" Snape howled, writhing harder than ever against his bindings, gnashing his teeth, uncaring now whether he lived or died, uncaring about anything. This wasn't how it should be.

He knew despite himself that he had developed feelings for her, he just wasn't aware how deep those feelings ran. Now it was moments too late, and he could never let her know, tell her—that she had been right. That he was a fool. And he had let her slip through his fingers.

Frend, in response, merely split into an enormous grin, causing the swollen side of his face to bunch and deform, his left eye reduced to nothing more than a thin slit that glinted in the firelight. Then he looked down at his wand, as though in surprise, turning it over and over slowly between his fingers. "Funny," he remarked casually. "I only meant to stun her." He shrugged and nudged the girl's leg with his toe, just to make sure. "Oh well, I suppose these things do slip out."

"I'LL KILL YOU! _I'LL KILL YOU!_"

With every struggle, Snape's ropes grew tighter, digging into the flesh of his wrists and sending spasms of pain up his arms. But that pain was nothing to the one lodged firmly within his chest. A gaping, horrible wound, as though something vital, something meant to be permanent, was now lost forever.


	19. A Mighty Struggle Part II

**Chapter Nineteen**

It was hot, then cold, then hot again, then both at the same time. She was suffocating, confined, choking, and yet she was floating in a fathomless, limitless abyss. She was confused and frightened, but she couldn't speak. She couldn't see or hear, or even breathe.

That was all to be expected, wasn't it? She was dead after all. She had died. Frend had killed her.

But, then, how could she still be thinking? Feeling things, knowing things? She didn't feel alive, and she wasn't quite… gone, either. Was this what it felt like to be a ghost?

Somehow that thought comforted Hermione. The fierce panic and fear that had been swirling around inside her lessened a bit. Being a ghost wouldn't be all bad, would it? It was better than nothing. Anything was better than nothing.

_What's..._

Where there had once only been oppressive darkness, there were now little dots of light, small and few at first, but multiplying fast and growing brighter all the time. Her world was grayer than it had been before, and there was a bit of a glow about it. She could see shapes, vague, silhouetted forms — she wasn't sure of what.

A moment later, something stirred deep inside Hermione. A tickling sensation in her breast — like a tiny candle flame, flickering, struggling against a strong wind. Then, so slowly at first that she barely knew it was happening, Hermione felt herself… gathering. Gathering something. What, she didn't know, but whatever it was, it was filling her up, all the way up, from the tips of her hair to the ends of her toes, until she felt as though she were ready to burst. Then all of that… light? energy?... drew suddenly together, sucked in by an invisible vacuum to the center of her body.

There was a long suspended moment of utter nothing, with everything compacted into a tight pulsing ball, and then it exploded.

Her chest gave one loud, colossal thud.

Instantly Hermione entire being flooded with warmth, through every inch of her, sparking and tingling pleasantly in the most unlikely of places; the beds of her fingernails, the nape of her neck, the soles of her feet. With a long, quiet shudder, Hermione's lungs filled with air, and in that same moment, her vision returned. She was looking at a ceiling. There were flickering shadows on the blank, white surface — hard to make out, yet she knew who they were. Her hearing came next, and much slower. All she could discern were muffled voices, as though she were wearing a very thick pair of earmuffs.

Hermione then had only a very small window of blissful realization — that she was breathing, that her heart was beating, that she was alive — before all the pains of her body came crashing back, blindsiding her like a five-ton truck, and the shock of it nearly killed her all over again.

She clenched her teeth so tightly it made her jaw ache. The action kept her lucid, kept her focused and determined, and most importantly, it kept her from sinking right back into that fathomless darkness from which she had just emerged.

She could hear Snape now. With a slight adjustment of her head, she could see him too. He was just as she had left him; bruised, bloody and bound, with Frend's broad form standing over him like the Grim Reaper himself.

Snape was snarling, "_Just kill me already_. _Just do it_."

Frend grunted. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, Professor?" he hissed. "No, I intend to make you suffer a _great _deal more." With a flick of his wand, Frend had the fire in the fireplace blazing hotly again. "I've been told the poison I gave you last month caused a nasty fever—am I wrong?"

Snape did not look at Frend. His head was turned towards the far wall, as though he were resigning himself to whatever torture Frend felt appropriate.

Frend did not seem to care, for he continued talking. "Delightful as that sounds, I haven't a drop of it with me. But I'm nothing if not resourceful, Sev. I'll improvise if I must."

Hermione screamed inwardly as she realized what Frend intended to do.

"You asked if I was tired of you," Frend continued, a half-crazed glint welling up in his eyes. "You mocked me, and this is what you get, Snape. You brought this upon yourself."

With a desperate surge of adrenaline, Hermione felt herself tense, getting ready to fight one last time. Images of that night when Snape had come stumbling through the front doors of Hogwarts flickered across Hermione's mind. Images of his normally pale face all sweaty and flushed, of him shaking and trembling, coughing, collapsing into her arms, how close he had been to death, how much he had suffered.

Once more, Hermione closed her aching fingers around her wand. She had to be careful this time—oh so careful. She had been given a second chance, and it might well be her last. So with her mind and her heart filled with fierce determination, Hermione moved for the first time since she died.

Frend was already raising his wand; she didn't have long.

With every joint and muscle screaming in protest, Hermione gritted her teeth and reached up to grab hold of the charred, ruined couch once more. Her broken leg blazed and pulsed wildly beneath her, but the adrenaline helped her to ignore it. She was so tired, yet she knew that she had to be fully upright in order to cast a spell with the most strength — and she was going to need every bit of strength she could possibly muster.

Frend waved his wand and hissed, "_Mobili-corpus_."

Snape's stiff, bound body rose slowly into the air, hovering no more than a few inches off the floor and angled feet-first towards the hot, blazing fireplace.

_Quickly, quickly, quickly. Careful, careful, careful. _Hermione's pulse raced furiously. She felt each beat of her heart thud against her chest like a hammer.

Frend was still turned away from her, focusing every bit of his attention on the impending torture. He couldn't have been more exposed if he tried, and Hermione knew she had him this time, she just _knew _it.

With that thought foremost in her mind, Hermione threw back her wand arm, ignoring the horrid wrench it caused in her shoulder, and then sent it forward again with a loud, throaty, "_STUPEFY_!"

Frend barely had time to turn his head before the explosion of red light hit him squarely in the back.

And then it was over.

Two bodies crashed instantly to the floor. Only one stood up again.

Severus Snape got quickly to his feet, shaking off the ropes that had turned limp and useless the moment the man who had cast them fell.

There was a long silence, as Snape stood there on the hearth, straight-backed and tall, though he was shivering and shaking all over. His mouth opened and closed several times before any sound actually came out. "H-Hermione?" he breathed. "I thought, Frend he… He _killed_ you, I _saw _it... You were… You…"

But Hermione couldn't stand it anymore and she gasped out, "My leg—"

A split-second later Snape had snatched up his wand and was kneeling at her side. "Lean on me," he said gruffly, his voice sounding unusually rough and ill-used.

Hermione held out her hands and placed them on Snape's shoulder, biting her lip as the raw and blistered skin on her palms made contact with the rough fabric. She swayed dangerously a few times, otherwise managing to hold herself steady as Snape moved his wand up and down both sides of her leg.

Within minutes Snape was done and he stood once again. As he did so, Hermione's hands fell away.

"I… could not fix it entirely," he said haltingly. "It will have to wait — for Madam Pomfrey. I dulled the pain as best I could…"

Bruised and bloody though it was, Snape's face was stark white beneath it all. He stood there, just as before, staring at her with his eyes wide and still red and puffy from the tears he had shed.

There followed another brief silence in which Hermione gingerly tested a bit of weight on her newly mended leg. Snape watched her do so without making a move. He almost seemed afraid to touch her.

"How…" he began again. "I thought you had…"

At last, Hermione broke her silence. "I did," she replied, surprised to find that her voice sounded nearly as rocky and miss-used as Snape's. She cleared her throat. "Or, I _almost_ did. So close that I stopped seeing—and hearing—stopped breathing even, I guess, except I was still alive… I think. But if… I mean how…" She shook her head. "I don't know. I really don't. I… I think it may have had something to do with my potion." Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, trying to pull together her fuzzy, muddled thoughts. "If it was, maybe I did die then, and it just brought me back. I can't remember. Maybe it has something to do with the regenerative properties of the Phoenix feathers I used — which would make more sense, because it didn't actually _heal _anything, technically — though I'm not sure what that hair did, then — I'm sorry, I don't understand either…really… I… Uhh…" Her vision wavered and her knees shook. She was so tired. "Anyway," she continued quietly. "It's over. That's all that matters."

Hesitantly, Snape reached out as though to put a hand on her shoulder. Then he stopped short, and let the arm fall back to his side. It was a very unsettling gesture coming from Snape, who usually acted with such conviction. But Hermione could hardly blame him. She was quite overcome herself.

"You are… really alive," Snape breathed, still staring at her as though she might drop dead at any moment.

Which was not an entirely unwarranted concern. Because just as Hermione smiled and nodded, her legs finally buckled beneath her, and she collapsed.

Snape was there. With one swift motion, he caught her up in his arms; his previous caution forgotten, he crushed her against his chest, hugging her so tightly that it took her breath away.

Tears pricked Hermione's eyes and she laughed weakly, basking in the kisses that Snape was suddenly raining down all over her face, and hair, and neck. Then he stopped, and drew back. "_Why did you do that_," he demanded sharply, giving her a shake. "You were told to _run_."

Hermione shrugged, started to say something, and then, realizing she had nothing to say, simply shook her head and gave another shrug.

Snape pulled her to him again. "Darling girl," he choked into her hair. "Stupid, foolish, _darling _girl."

With that, and quite unexpectedly, Hermione was smiling so widely that it hurt. She leaned up weakly to plant a kiss on Snape's bloody, scruffy cheek, delirious with the aftershock of it all. She was overwhelmed with... But her smile died almost as soon as it came. Her vision began to swim again and she fell back against Snape's arms. The world tossed and turned and lurched to and fro like the deck of a ship as the adrenaline drained from Hermione's body, the full extent of her injuries crashing back. Her lungs felt as though they were filled with lead, and all at once her heartbeat slowed.

Something was wrong.

Snape realized this instantly, snatching up Hermione's small, pale hand in his. He pressed it to his cheek, his eyebrows drawing sharply together when he felt how icy it was.

Hermione did not feel nearly as alert anymore. Her eyelids were starting to get heavy, so she let them close, relieved not to be watching the ceiling spinning above her anymore. The potion had brought her back alright, but it hadn't healed her. She was too weak, too stressed, and her heart couldn't handle the shock of it all.

"Wake up!" Snape demanded, shaking her sharply. "Damnit! Wake _up_!"

Hermione's eyes snapped open as a sudden, violent shock surged through her. Snape had taken her hand — the one with a dark line still firmly imprinted on its palm — and was pressing it hard against the golden lock of hair at his temple.

Hermione's body hummed wildly, but Snape did not let go. Then, through it all, she began to notice something very strange:

She was healing.

It was as though there was a part of her that had been missing and now it was returning, filling in gaping holes inside herself that she never noticed were there. It was wonderful. Soon, Snape no longer needed to hold on for her anymore, and his hand slipped away once he realized that her fingers were strong again.

When Hermione finally did let go, it was only because Snape was swaying dangerously and she glanced up to see that his face looked more tired and haggard than ever. With a guilty jolt, Hermione realized that everything she had just taken into her body — all of that energy — she had taken _from _him. Snape's nose was bleeding freely again.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Hermione gasped. "I didn't know — I didn't mean to — Are you alright—" Hermione made as though to stand, but Snape's arms tightened around her with surprising strength and forced her to remain where she was.

"Yes, I'm alright, stop fussing," he growled.

"But shouldn't I at least—"

"No — Yes — In a moment. For once in your life, could you just shut up and do as I ask?"

Hermione's anxiety felt like a living animal in her chest. "Of course, but—"

"It's very simple. All I want you to do is sit — just sit right here for one sodding moment, and breathe. Can you do that?"

"You just… want me to breathe? That's all?"

"Yes, well, you weren't doing it for a while, so if you wouldn't mind…"

She didn't mind.

With her heart beating fast and strong, Hermione leaned into Snape's broad chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath her cheek. He was alive. She had saved him. Severus Snape was alive. She looked up at him again, intending to tell him just how brave and strong and good she thought he was, when she saw something that made her jaw drop.

Snape noticed her slack expression and raised his eyebrows questioningly. "What?"

She couldn't help it. A giggle started to force its way up her throat, and there was nothing she could do to stop. Hermione clamped a hand over her mouth in a vain attempt to muffle her laughter, but her shoulders were shaking far too much to hide.

"What is it!" Snape barked again.

"I'm sorry," she choked. "I'm sorry, but it's just… I don't mean to keep doing this to you, I swear…" Hermione pointed to the previously golden hair at Snape's temple.

"For Merlin's sake, what color is it _now_?" he growled, reaching up to run his fingers through a thick streak of pure, snowy white.

Hermione opened her mouth, intending to zing back a clever remark, but she was interrupted — by a long, loud, unmistakable groan.

They had forgotten about Travers.

Both Hermione and Snape shot immediately to their feet. Snape nearly fell right back to the ground again, but Hermione lent him her shoulder and he was able to steady himself.

"I'll take care of Travers," he said quietly in her ear. "You see if you can find that mirror I usually keep in my pocket. You know the one?"

Hermione nodded, puzzled.

"I believe it to be somewhere beneath the desk on the far wall." Then Snape let go and staggered off towards the two black heaps — one moaning, the other one still — next to the fireplace, warily holding his wand out in front of him.

Though there were now what seemed like a hundred different questions racing through her mind at once, Hermione asked none of them and instead did as she was told. Quickly, she made her way through the wreckage of the sitting room, amazed to find that her leg felt good as new. That elated feeling left very quickly, however, when she approached the desk. Where there had once been a very nice little white writing desk, there now sat many jagged, smoking pieces of wood. With a groan she dropped to her hands and knees and began to carefully and methodically sift through the charred remains, expecting at any moment to come upon the mirror crushed into a small pile of sparkling dust.

Hermione resisted the urge to look over her shoulder when she heard Snape mutter a swift _Stupefy _and two levitation spells; she would rather not see those particular bodies again.

"Is it there?" Snape asked distantly. Was he taking them into the garden?

Hermione immediately began to form the word 'no' but just then her fingers touched upon something smooth and cool and she changed her answer to a rather astounded, "Yes! Here it is!" She pulled the mirror from the rubble and wiped a hand across its dusty surface, her mouth falling slightly open in wonderment. Not even a scratch. More magic?

"Good." Snape was back inside. "Give it to me," he commanded sternly, and Hermione hurried over to set it face up in his open palm, a fierce anxiety beginning to bubble up again inside her.

"What are we going to do now?" she breathed nervously. "I hope Dumbledore got there in time. But what if he didn't. He can't have known. Vol — You-Know-Who could be on his way right now. And Sirius might be… Oh, Severus, it was a trap!"

Snape did not reply, but Hermione could instantly tell that he had been thinking the same thing. His face was drawn and pale, and he looked rather frightening beneath all that blood. Hermione would have offered to clean him up a bit, but she knew that it could wait. Snape's mouth set into a determined scowl as he gazed intently down at the mirror.

Hermione watched him, fascinated despite their perilous situation.

After a minute or two, the surface of the mirror began to glow faintly. At first Hermione thought it was just the moonlight shining in through the open window, except, the glow was more blue than yellow, and seemed to be pulsing steadily; almost as though it were…ringing. Like a telephone, only silently.

They stood there for long time, and Hermione couldn't help but wonder if Snape was waiting for Dumbledore to 'pick up.' This must have been the case, because after five minutes or so, the glowing stopped and Hermione could hear something… something that sounded a lot like the distant yells and crashes of a battle.

"Headmaster," Snape began at once, his eyes riveted unblinkingly on the mirror. "I have Granger, but we—"

Dumbledore's booming voice cut him off. "If you are able, stay put!"

The mirror flashed green, and Hermione gasped as she heard an answering scream.

Dumbledore seemed to be breathing quite hard. "I cannot help you now, Severus. I've got to — Voldemort has — Just _stay put_!" And then he was gone.

The mirror gave one pulse, like the click of a receiver, and then the surface was glassy, smooth and quiet once again.

Snape lowered his hand and carefully placed the little mirror back in his pocket. "The battle is not going well," he said darkly — though Hermione had already gathered as much for herself.

With a barely contained sob, Hermione buried her face in her hands. Snape responded instantly by pulling her hands away again, gathering her to him and kissing her deeply, hungrily. It only lasted for a moment, but Hermione felt her heart lifted all the same. As they pulled away, she offered Snape a weak smile which he did not return — though she had not, in all honesty, expected him to.

As Snape left her and silently began the task of transporting Rosier's limp body to join the others (whom he had tied up and left in the garden), Hermione conjured towels from the kitchen, soaking them through with warm water from her wand. She rubbed her face vigorously with one of them, which stung sharply and left her skin feeling a bit raw. She was determined to remove every speck of blood. Then, tentatively, she approached Snape with the other. He was standing by the window now, eyes closed, the tip of his wand pointed directly at the middle of his face as he began to realign his poor, mangled nose.

When he was finished, he snatched the damp cloth out of Hermione's hands with a sort of low grunt that Hermione took to mean "thank you." Normally, she might have been a bit offended at his sudden surly, distant disposition, but she knew how hurt and tired and frustrated he must be.

Dumbledore and the others were fighting for their lives at that very moment — against Voldemort himself — and all they could do was sit. And wait. Again.

Yes, Hermione understood very well how Snape felt.

Almost at once, Hermione felt a bone-deep weariness settle over her, like a thick, wet coat dropped upon her shoulders, and she longed for nothing more than a warm shower and a soft bed. She wanted to sleep for days — but there were still things to do. And they weren't safe yet.

* * *

Severus buried his face in the warm towel and exhaled slowly. Every inch of his body ached and trembled from more than just the aftereffects of the Cruciatus. There was a disturbing sort of emptiness inside him that had not been there before — or if it had, it had never been quite this noticeable. He was so exhausted that he felt about ninety years old.

Severus lowered the towel and glanced briefly out the open window, into the courtyard. Travers and Frend he had tied up with ropes, back-to-back and propped up against the side of a small fountain. Rosier he had simply laid out on the grass a few yards away. There was no real practical reason for why he had moved the bodies, he had simply felt compelled to do so. It was as though the Death Eaters gave off this invisible stench of darkness and decay that filled up the tiny sitting room like an odorless gas, and Severus was afraid of Hermione breathing in their toxic fumes.

Or, perhaps he simply wanted them out of the way. In any case, it didn't really matter, and he didn't feel like thinking about it.

Severus slung the towel around the back of his neck. Most of the warmth was already gone, but the little that was left still soothed some of the tightness in his muscles. He ran his hands distractedly through his hair, automatically bracing himself for the familiar thrill he had become so used to feeling at his fingertips. Except… it wasn't there. The strange presence had left him. He ignored the slight twinge of regret in his gut, and looked up to see Hermione standing quietly by the ruined sofa.

Her whole body seemed slumped and heavy. Her hair was a frazzled, matted mess around her shoulders, and her skin was so pale, drawn taut across her face. There were lingering lines of pain around her brown eyes and she was frowning deeply.

Distantly (for at the moment, everything felt rather distant and disconnected), Severus wished that she would smile. He felt a strange sadness at seeing such pain and weariness etched into her young face — usually so vibrant, so full of color and wit. Even though he normally found annoyance with her tiresome buoyancy, he would have very much preferred it over the wan, troubled, exhausted, anxious girl he was looking at right now…

_Alive._

Severus's mind was still trying desperately to get around exactly what had happened. Both she and Frend had mentioned a potion — and something about a hair? — but there was nothing in any book Severus had ever read (and he had read a lot of books) that could protect a person from _Avada Kedavra_. Nothing. No spell, no charm, no potion of any kind. What on earth had she done? What sort of potion could bring a person back from the dead? Then again, had she even died in the first place? But Severus was almost certain that she had. He remembered so clearly those vacant, glassy eyes, the complete and utter stillness of her body.

Hermione's head turned slightly and she caught him watching her.

Without saying a word, Severus looked away and went back to scrubbing the blood from his face — taking extra care with the bristled stubble on his jaw. _Sexy _or not, the next chance he got, he was shaving the damn thing off.

* * *

They had been quiet for a long time, and Hermione was now sitting on what was left of the sofa. As every second passed, a question began to grow stronger in the back of her mind. The silence was heavy and oppressive, and though she did not feel comfortable breaking it yet, Hermione did so anyway. "Who… er… did that to Travers?" she asked, so quietly that at first she wasn't sure Snape had even heard her.

"I don't know," Snape replied after a time, his voice nearly as quiet as hers. "Does it matter?"

Hermione shrugged. "Not really — I mean, I guess it sort of does — I mean, it… depends."

Snape was not looking at her, his profile stony and impassive in the moonlight. "I did not do it," he said icily.

"Oh, no," Hermione hurried to amend. "Of course you didn't. I didn't mean to say—"

"Yes, you did." He gave her a sidelong glance that she could not quite interpret. "Don't lie, Hermione. It does not become you."

Hermione did not know what to say to that. She mouthed wordlessly for a moment or two, feeling foolish and tongue-tied, and extremely guilty. "I'm sorry," she said at last, fervently.

Snape appeared to believe her. He nodded. "That spell is not something you would have learned about in any class or read about in any text. It was something Frend invented himself. You see, aside from his obvious connections with the M.A.R., the reason he happens to be in such high favor with the Dark Lord, is because he has a knack for creating his own torture techniques — for creating them and then spreading them around to his fellow Death Eaters. Truth be told, that spell could have been cast by any number of people in this room. Of course, it would have had to have been someone with supremely awful aim."

"And supreme stupidity," Hermione added. "Who in their right mind would fling a curse like that around with so many people in such close proximity?" Hermione was feeling sick to her stomach.

"Unfortunately, many Death Eaters fit those very specifications. As I said, it could have been any—"

Snape stopped talking immediately as the door to the sitting room squeaked slowly open.

Heart in her throat, Hermione whipped around to be met by a very strange sight: A small wooden broom, followed closely by a pink dustpan, was shuffling purposefully into the room. Within seconds both were scooping and sweeping the mounds of ash, shattered china, feathers and little bits of cloth that were scattered about the floor into an enormous pile, as though invisible servants had suddenly been summoned in to tidy up.

For the second time in the past hour, Hermione found herself slowly overcome by the strange desire to laugh.

"Worthless cleaning spells," Snape muttered. "Why show up now? They are usually so irritatingly prompt."

Hermione shrugged. "Maybe they were cleaning upstairs first?"

"Upstairs?"

"Yes, I heard the Death Eaters blasting doors open with their wands when they were looking for me. Who knows what all they destroyed." As Hermione said this, it put her in mind of her potion, and she worried that someone might have found it. She thought briefly about going to fetch it, but then Dumbledore's voice rang through her head, shouting the words _stay put_, and she decided that she could wait a little while longer.

"Oh!" Hermione pointed at Snape's pocket, which had begun to pulse steadily with a faint blue light.

In a movement so swift she could barely follow it, Snape pulled the mirror out and began to gaze stonily into its depths, his eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. Hermione edged in beside him so she could peer over his elbow.

Moments later, Dumbledore's kind, bearded face swam into view. He looked haggard and tired, and much older than Hermione could ever remember.

"What is your situation, Severus?" Dumbledore began in a very somber yet agitated voice. "Are you alright? And Miss Granger?"

Hermione was dying to know what had happened in Hogsmeade. Snape probably harbored the same desire, but he answered Dumbledore's questions first. He related quickly and efficiently, sparing no detail, what had come to pass in Pruitt cottage during the past few hours.

Dumbledore listened to Snape in silence, his face more or less impassive — though Hermione could tell that a definite air of relief had stolen over him. He seemed less agitated now, more tired than anything else. At that moment in time, it seemed to Hermione as though everyone in the world were tired — as though everyone were just as exhausted and weary as she was, and she couldn't for the life of her imagine any differently.

Finally, Snape finished. He waited obediently for Dumbledore's instructions.

"Stay where you are," Dumbledore began at once. "You seem to be out of harm's way for the time being. I will arrange for your Floo to be connected to the network for an hour or so — but first I must speak to the Minister. I hope you don't mind if I _strongly advise _him to send a few Aurors over to collect the bodies, as he will probably want to interrogate Frend himself. Perhaps now he will see reason. I don't imagine even Cornelius Fudge will be able to deny the Dark Lord's return with such barefaced proof staring him right in the face."

"Yes, Headmaster," was all Snape said in reply.

Hermione could not contain herself any longer. "Professor Dumbledore! What happened at Hogsmeade? Is Sirius alright? Did anyone get hurt? Did You-Know-Who—"

But Dumbledore was making no acknowledgement of Hermione's outburst.

"He can't hear you," Snape growled testily.

"What was that?" replied Dumbledore.

"Herm — Miss Granger is here, Headmaster. She was asking about Hogsmeade."

Dumbledore's face, if possible, turned even graver. "It was a hard battle, Severus. If not for this mirror and your quick thinking, we never would have arrived in time."

_He must have sent a message through the mirror when the Death Eaters arrived,_ Hermione thought briefly. _That must have been why it was shoved under the desk. Well done, Severus!_

"Even so," Dumbledore continued. "Voldemort got away — but only just. Many of his followers were caught, and many more of them, sadly, were killed in the battle."

"That's not entirely…" Hermione began anxiously. "It could have been worse, couldn't it? I mean, they could have—"

Snape shushed her sharply as Dumbledore went on.

"However, there were… casualties on our side as well."

Hermione felt the pit of her stomach drop.

"Professor Flitwick and Remus Lupin are thankfully still alive but in grave condition. Poppy is tending to them now. Along with Mr. Potter—"

"Oh!" exclaimed Hermione.

"—who suffered a severe laceration to his chest. I believe he is well on the mend by now — Poppy should have him to rights in a few days."

Hermione's hands were at her mouth now, her throat tightening painfully at the thought of her dear friend cut and bleeding. But if there was anxiety churning within her now, it was nothing to the gut-wrenching horror that took its place when Dumbledore spoke his next words.

"Sirius Black, I'm afraid, has been killed. He fell moments before we arrived, ambushed and alone. He hadn't a chance. Very sad business, very sad…"

Snape had to immediately let go of the mirror with one hand in order to grab Hermione by the arm before she could collapse to the floor.

Hermione doubled over, moaning piteously. She felt sick, violently ill, as though she had just swallowed a heady mouthful of poison. _Sirius_, she thought mournfully, her eyes spilling over with hot angry tears. _Ambushed and alone. _Unbidden, an image flashed across her mind of the final moment she had shared with Sirius. The bewildered expression on his face as Hermione had pulled back. She had abandoned him, and he had died alone.

Dimly she could hear Dumbledore's voice telling Snape that once the Aurors arrived, they were to Floo straight back to Hogwarts.

"It was wrong of me to send you away, Severus. I realize now that there is no safer place in the world that you could be. And, in any case… we have been missing our Potions Professor."

* * *

The moment she reached the Hospital Wing doors, Hermione threw them open and flew as fast as her feet could carry her straight to Harry. Madam Pomfrey tried to intercept her, but she easily ducked beneath her arms.

Ron was there, standing stiffly at his friend's side, his face blotchy and tear-stained. Lupin lay sleeping in the next bed over looking gaunter and grayer than ever, and next to him was a bed with its curtain drawn which must have contained tiny Professor Flitwick. Snape and McGonagall were somewhere behind Hermione, following grim and straight-backed in her wake.

But she had eyes only for Harry.

It was Harry's godfather who had died. It was Harry's godfather whom Hermione had been the last to see alive. It was Harry's godfather whom Hermione had sent into a trap.

She reached the bed, and though Harry was bound heavily in white bandages, she flung her arms around him, bursting into shuddering, heart-wrenching sobs. "Oh, Harry, I should have been there," she wailed. "I'm so sorry, Harry, I pulled back, I didn't go with him. I _should_ have been there to help him! I should have known, all this time Frend was… and Sirius, he… Oh, _Harry_!"

It took more than a few hands to pry Hermione off her friend and back to her feet again, so no one had any attention to spare for the dark figure that slipped quietly out of the room and away down the hall, silent as a shadow as he tried but failed to ignore the sound of Hermione Granger's deep regret ringing hollowly in his ears.

* * *

Severus strode into his rooms, locked his doors, turned off all the lights, and promptly collapsed into bed — clothes and all. He had passed exhaustion hours ago. His body seemed so far away and disconnected now, almost as though he had transcended to a state of delirium.

Yet, as he lay there in the dark, sinking slowly into his mattress, he could not turn off his brain.

Hermione's words had hurt him more than they probably should have.

_Oh, Harry, I should have been there! I didn't go with him! I should have been there to help him!_

Severus didn't understand. Did she regret staying behind for him? Did she see it as a mistake? Did she wish that he and Black's places had been exchanged?

Surely not.

But there was a part of him — a big part of him — that still questioned the girl's feelings. It was such a ludicrous thing to consider, after all. It didn't make any sense, her caring for him in such a way. And if there was anything that Hermione Granger excelled at, it was good sense. What if she had simply been… lying? What if all of it had simply been some sort of elaborate joke?

Severus's head nearly exploded with fury at the thought. What if all that time she had merely been playing him for a fool? Her childish booby-trap hadn't worked, so she threw a tantrum and put her devious little mind to work on an even grander plan for revenge, was that it?

Severus's anger died away almost as instantly.

No, that wasn't it. She had stayed behind for him. As foolish and brazen and nauseatingly _Gryffindor_ as it was, Hermione had proved her true feelings thoroughly and unflinchingly. And that made Severus… uncomfortable.

No one had ever done things like that for him before; stayed behind for him, fought for him, _rescued _him.

Now that impossible girl had done it twice.

How was he supposed to respond? What did she expect of him? Did she even expect _anything _of him? They were back at Hogwarts now, and she couldn't have forgotten their agreement. The rules applied now more than ever — especially after what had happened. Surely she needed to be with her friends far more than with him. Looking at her friends wouldn't remind her of that terror-filled cottage, of that ruthless attack, of that fateful decision she had made and now… regretted?

This brought Severus back to the root of it all once again.

She was meant to have gone with Black, that was always the plan. Severus was quite certain that this action would have done nothing to change the outcome, in fact she undoubtedly would have died alongside Black, but, in Granger's mind, there was no telling what sort of psychotic, guilt-driven fantasy she had woven for herself. She had, perhaps, convinced herself that had she been there, and fought beside him, they would have triumphed—and furthermore that, because of Severus, she hadn't been, and Sirius had died.

Was that it, really? Did she blame him?

Severus exhaled noisily and with a mighty effort, rolled over on his side, burying his face beneath a pillow. He didn't know what she was thinking, nor whom she blamed, and he damn well shouldn't _care _to know.

Sirius Black was dead. No matter where the blame lay, no matter how sorry or how guilty Hermione Granger felt, nothing was going to change that. Though, as dark and selfish as it was, Severus couldn't help thinking that Sirius Black had known about him and Granger and had fully intended to tell Dumbledore—but now, through unfortunate circumstances no one could have anticipated, he could not tell anyone. Their secret was safe.

Slowly but surely Severus at last began to fall into a fitful sleep, his mind full of troubles, and his heart heavy with dread for the morning.


	20. Frowns, Sneers, and Sheer Stupidity

**Chapter Twenty**

It was a dark and gloomy morning that dawned that day — as though someone had come through during the night and whitewashed every surface in sight. Even the grounds were bleak, misty and gray beneath the feeble glow of sunlight that barely managed to squeeze through the clouds.

Hermione sat rigidly in a chair at Harry's bedside. Her hands were folded loosely in her lap and her face was stern and pale as she gazed stonily out the Hospital Wing window, lost in thought. She had been awake for a good three hours already, her eyes snapping sharply open well before sunrise. Her dreams had not been good ones.

Even though Hermione was physically fine, after a brief run-down of recent events, Madam Pomfrey had insisted on everyone within her line of sight staying the night in the Hospital Wing (strangely, Snape had not been present at the time). Spending yet another night trapped in that stuffy old room was the very last thing Hermione had wanted. Frankly, all she had felt like doing at that moment was curling up in her soft familiar four-poster in Gryffindor Tower and slipping peacefully into a coma. But Madam Pomfrey had been adamant. And Hermione felt compelled to stay with Harry anyway.

"A sickle for your thoughts."

Hermione started at the gruff voice behind her. She turned to find Remus Lupin propped up on some pillows, eyes open, smiling weakly. He looked very tired.

"I'm not sure they're worth a sickle, Professor," she replied gloomily.

Lupin's smile did not fall. If anything, it widened. "Ah," he breathed. "It's nice to be called Professor again."

"Is it?" Quietly as she could, so as not to wake Harry, Hermione scooted her chair closer to her former teacher.

Lupin shrugged. "I suppose it sounds dignified… or something. At least more so than Were... than other things."

Hermione couldn't help but feel a sharp pang of empathy for the incredible, sweet, caring man in front of her, one whom the world had so sorely abused. Even though he did not voice it directly, Hermione thought she understood a little of what Lupin might have been trying to say. As a Professor at Hogwarts, he had found something that made him belong, gave him a respected position in society, grounded him. It had made him almost normal, in a way. Or at least, identified him as something other than an unemployed Werewolf.

Hermione said none of what she was thinking however, and tried instead to force herself (with an effort so great, it almost hurt) to return Lupin's tired smile. She could not quite make it reach her eyes though, and so knowing that it was pointless to fake a happiness she did not feel, she soon gave up. "I do wish you would come back," she said to Lupin at last. "I don't think we've ever had anyone better. I don't know if we ever told you, truly, but I think I might as well say it now. We really _learned_ in your class—we really benefited from it, you know. With the exception of Professor Moody — who wasn't actually Moody, so never mind, I guess — Defense Against the Dark Arts has been absolute rubbish every year. And such an important class! We desperately need preparation, but what we've had to suffer through time after time borders on the absurd. I suppose there might have been a few useful hexes here and there in our textbooks, but none of them were very impressive, or even applicable. I wish there was _someone_ with the proper intelligence and genuine interest in student learning who could… I know it's insensitive to say when I'm already pretty certain of what your answer will be, but… can't you come back, Professor Lupin? Is there anyway?"

Lupin chuckled. "Never knew you thought so highly of me."

"I do. We all do."

Lupin sighed tiredly, "I would love nothing more, you know I would. But I can't, Hermione, I'm sorry. You'll just have to make do with what you've got—which is really all you need, actually, when you look at it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean… friends. Courage. Loyalty. Oh, listen to me—I don't know. Just… You're doing alright, is all I'm trying to say. You and Harry and Ron, all you of you—I can't imagine how hard it is rely so heavily upon yourselves and each other without the proper guidance from an instructor, but that can be a strength too. Your friends. Who could possibly be more invested in your success? Be more willing to help you and listen to you? I can't tell you how many times when we were in school I would sit Sirius down and…"

With a guilty jolt, Hermione's face fell. What little surge of comfort she had gleaned from Lupin's words vanished in an instant. She felt, momentarily, as though she had just hugged a Dementor.

Lupin's entire demeanor quickly followed suit. "I'm sorry," he amended quietly. "I—didn't mean to mention… I mean, I know you're upset about it. I'm upset about it too—more than you could ever… I… guess what I'm trying to say is…" Lupin's haggard face tried once again to arrange itself into a reassuring smile. He reached over and settled his rather cold hand upon hers. "It's alright, Hermione," he said softly. "It'll all be alright. I promise. Just keep doing what you're doing. I'll be here anytime you need to talk."

Hermione merely nodded, solemnly. She knew Lupin meant well, but, despite it all, he wasn't making her feel better. She didn't want him to make her feel better; she didn't deserve it. There was such a depressing heaviness on her shoulders now, all over her body in fact, that tugged down the corners of her mouth and made her jaw rigid and tight, as though it were screwed shut with iron bolts. She just barely restrained herself from muttering, "No, it won't."

Even though Lupin appeared friendly and warm towards her now, Hermione couldn't help thinking how his face would distort and his manner turn instantly cold if he knew… If he knew that when his best friend in the whole world had died, Hermione had been the last one to see him alive, and done nothing to help.

As that thought echoed through her mind, the aching emptiness inside Hermione continue to grow ever wider. Vaguely, distantly, she had the notion that there was something out there that her heart was seeking — a perfect sentence containing the perfect words that she needed to hear in order for her to truly feel whole again. It was something she couldn't say to herself, but had to come from someone she trusted. And she hadn't the faintest clue what that something was. So if _she_ didn't know, how was poor Professor Lupin supposed to know? Or anyone else, for that matter...

* * *

Sheer, utter torture. That's what this was.

Severus all but sank beneath the table in the Great Hall as Dumbledore stood before the entire student body and publicly denounced every lie previously stated about Severus in _The Daily Prophet_. Each one. Individually.

Granted, the looks of terror and revulsion aimed Severus' way seemed to dim somewhat after this speech, but Severus was not quite sure whether he appreciated this or not. On the one hand, he did not exactly revel in the idea of being seen as a sort of pyromaniac child-snatcher, but on the other hand, they were all bound to be staring at him anyway (what with his foolish new haircut and that infernal _stripe_ on his head — not to mention the stubbled jaw, which, despite his previous intentions to do otherwise, he had yet to shave), so why not looks of fear? He did appreciate those so much more.

As Dumbledore moved on from what _didn't_ happen to what _did_, Severus couldn't help but note that the old wizard certainly liked to skip details. Severus felt a rush of gratitude replace his embarrassment as Dumbledore finally sat down again, having mentioned nothing more explicit than, "All responsibility lies with Lord Voldemort." No one could deny, at least the man had tact.

Severus shuddered to think how many eyebrows would have been raised in that room if Dumbledore had revealed the particulars of Severus and Granger's little… adventure. Student and Professor, together in the mountains, alone in a secluded cottage. Oh, the rumors that bit of information would reap.

In any case, _The Prophet's_ outrageous stories seemed to have been quelled for the moment and the instant Severus deemed it safe to make a graceful exit, he did so, desperately hoping that his day would improve.

He was, unsurprisingly, disappointed.

"Can I _help_ you, Miss Patil!" Severus barked sharply later that afternoon, causing the girl quietly calling his name to let out an involuntary squeak of terror.

"I — I — I—" Parvati stammered, helplessly lost for words as she gaped wide-eyed at Severus's recently altered visage.

"You — you — you — _what_?" Severus mocked her waspishly in return. He had been in a foul mood since the moment he opened his eyes that morning, which meant that after all of the whispering, pointing, and dumbfounded ogling throughout the day, he was now fit to murder. And it was only lunch time.

Severus truly hated being the center of attention… when it was involuntary, anyway. As a Professor he had to expect a certain amount of attention when at the front of a class — but that sort of attention was very different than the kind he was receiving now, the kind that only happened when his back was turned, or when the people around him thought he wasn't looking. It was a secret attention, the sort that Severus used to get all the time when he had been a student. Needless to say, nothing said back then had been very kind, and he strongly doubted that these hushed conversations now following him through the halls like a swarm of locusts were any different.

Yes, his nerves were being rubbed very raw indeed.

"You — this — er — dropped it — I think—" Cheeks glowing hotly, Parvati shakily held out a roll of parchment with a periwinkle ribbon tied around it.

Severus's eyes widened and he snatched the parchment out of her hand quicker than a flash. "Fine, Miss Patil. A point to Gryffindor. Now stop gaping like a buffoon and return to your table."

"Y-yes sir."

Severus paused just long enough to watch the girl all but sprint back to her seat in the Great Hall before turning smartly and stalking off, the small roll of parchment clutched tightly in his fist.

The parchment was a letter — a letter from Granger. He had received it less than an hour ago right there at the lunch table, but had yet to actually read the thing. He had only opened it long enough to see who it was from, and then promptly shoved it into the pocket of his robes. Minerva McGonagall happened to be seated directly next to him, and he hadn't wanted to take any chances. Not that the old woman was in any habit of reading people's private mail over their shoulders… but, still. You could never be too careful.

In any case, upon receiving the letter, Severus had searched the Hall for its author, but Granger was nowhere to be found. Though it was entirely possible that she was still locked up in the hospital wing, he thought. Poppy could be merciless with her patients' freedom at times. She held them like hostages of war, and Merlin forbid anyone attempt to leave when they had not specifically been dismissed. Severus had certainly received his fair share of that woman's lectures, and he was none too envious of anyone in danger of receiving one now.

As Severus swept down the stairs en route to his laboratory, he toyed briefly with the notion of visiting Hermione — but then discarded the idea almost as soon as it came to mind. For one thing, there were far too many people in that room who might raise potentially awkward questions, and for another, he was still feeling rather odd about the whole… thing. Their "relationship," if that was the correct term.

He was not quite sure how to approach it. There were so many questions to which he wanted answers, but none of them were questions he actually wanted to _ask_. He had never been very keen on heart-to-hearts, and any emotionally-involved conversation with Hermione Granger was bound to stray into things Severus would rather not discuss. Like _feelings_. He hated talking about _feelings_. He would much rather just… what, for fuck's sake? Plow blindly onwards in confused, frustrated ignorance? That certainly did not sound productive.

Severus snarled inwardly. Why did everything have to be so bloody complicated? Why couldn't they just be together when they wanted, and not be together when they didn't, and that be the end of it? He barely resisted the impulse to slam the laboratory door behind him. No need to be childish, after all. He could handle this like the mature adult he was. Adult. _Adult_.

That word echoed in his head. The harder he tried to dismiss it, the stronger its impression became. What the hell was he doing? Messing around with a student. His student. A girl. A young girl. What the _hell_ was he _doing_?

Severus swallowed the lump of guilt and revulsion creeping up his throat, and sat down at his desk. He placed the letter directly in front of him, scowling at that stupid periwinkle ribbon as it flirted with him cruelly. Then, after the smallest of pauses, he opened it.

The message was short:

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Just wanted to check in and confirm that lesson times for my independent study were the same as last semester's._

_Please let me know,_

_Hermione Granger_

Severus stared at the note for a long time. Lesson times? After everything that had happened in the past month, _that's_ what she decided to owl him about?

Severus knew he shouldn't care. He knew that this was perfectly in-keeping with everything he had asked of her and everything they had mutually decided upon. But there was no stopping the surprising sense of indignation that welled up within him in the face of such informality. She might at least have asked how he was recovering, ungrateful little thing. It made him feel short-changed somehow, and he had the overwhelming desire to reciprocate that feeling.

Making an instant decision, Severus whipped out a fresh scrap of parchment and scribbled a hasty reply:

_Miss Granger,_

_Due to recent circumstances, I do not think it wise for you to be serving under my private tutelage any longer. As of now, your independent study in potions has ended and you are henceforth free to waste someone else's time with impertinent questions on whatever topics you so desire._

Regards,

_S.S._

Then, without even reading it through a second time, Severus rolled up the letter, slipped it into his pocket, and set off immediately for the owlry to mail it.

Yes, it was childish, yes, it was pathetic and spiteful — but, then again, tact had never exactly been Severus's most manicured quality. Even he had to admit, he could be quite a bastard sometimes.

* * *

"Don't be stupid, Hermione. Stop wallowing — Sirius wouldn't have wanted a fuss."

Hermione stared back at Ginny dully. Nope. That wasn't what she needed to hear either.

They were sitting in the library; Neville on one side of her, Ginny directly across the small table.

Harry was still in the hospital wing and Ron was out on the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the Gryffindor team. The moment she had been released from Madam Pomfrey's grasp, Hermione had sought comfort in one of her very favorite places on Hogwarts grounds.

However, in light of recent events, her friends seemed to have developed an annoying habit of following her about, apparently convinced that she was in dire need of "cheering up." She was. But they were no better at it than Professor Lupin — perhaps even worse.

The only time she had managed to shake them off was for a few brief moments early that morning in the owlry while she had scribbled a quick note to Professor Snape. There were so many things she wanted to talk about with him, so many things she wanted to say, that she felt as though she might explode with frustration trying to write it all out on parchment. She needed to see him face to face, she needed time to gather her thoughts, and she needed to look into his eyes and actually see his reaction to get a feel for what exactly they were supposed to do next. In any case, she thought their private lessons would be a perfect time to do this, as that, at least, would assure her some privacy from her "concerned well-wishers."

Still, she didn't want to be rude. "You're right Ginny," Hermione said with a barely repressed sigh. Then she stood. "Excuse me — I've got a Snapping Zanzibara in Greenhouse Four that is in desperate need of pruning."

Then, just as she was gathering up her stuff to go, Neville spoke, very quietly.

"We know you were scared, Hermione. We understand. I — I probably would have been too. Anyone would have been — even Harry."

That _definitely_ wasn't what she needed to hear. "No, he wouldn't have," she muttered as she slung her bag over her shoulder. "No, he wouldn't have."

* * *

If Severus had been hoping for his day to improve after lunch, he was sorely disappointed. Again. Everything up until that point had been a sun-dappled walk in the park next to what happened that evening at dinner, when it all really started.

There he was, dicing his vegetables and minding his own business like any respectable person (and pointedly avoiding Granger, who had been trying to catch his eye all night), when what should be dropped on the table in front of him — by means of a large barn owl — but two brightly colored envelopes. _Red_ envelopes.

Severus's eyes widened. But only for a minute, because in a flash he had reached out and snatched them up in his hand. What he had not been expecting, however, was that these envelopes would not, as normal envelopes do, _wait_ for him to open them. Upon his touch, they open themselves.

What then issued forth was an explosive duet of voices screaming things that made Severus feel as though the pit of his stomach had momentarily fallen through his shoes:

"YOU OUGHT TO BE SACKED YOU GREASY BASTARD! I DON'T WANT MY LITTLE GIRL BEING TAUGHT BY A PERVERTED—"

"THAT FOREST IS A MAGICAL LANDMARK! A PRICELESS PIECE OF HISTORY! SHAME ON YOU FOR—"

"HEAVEN ONLY KNOWS WHEN YOU MIGHT SNATCH ANOTHER ONE AND GO RUNNING OFF INTO THE MOUNTAINS TO—"

"IT MAY BE ABLE TO REGROW ITSELF, BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN THAT WHAT YOU DID —"

"DOING HEAVEN ONLY KNOWS WHAT SICK, TWISTED THINGS WITH—"

"SETTING THE WHOLE THING ON FIRE JUST TO—"

"ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTING—"

"DUMBLEDORE MAY THINK—"

"WON'T STAND FOR—"

"DISGRACEFUL DEVIOUS BEHAVIOR—"

"YOU BELONG IN AZKABAN!"

"AZKABAN I SAYS!"

With an almost perfectly synchronized finality, the letters fell back to the table, once again quiet and unobtrusive.

The silence in the Great Hall was so thick it felt tangible, as though Severus could reach up with his butter knife and slice a piece of it right out of the air.

Apparently, there were still those outside Hogwarts who firmly believed what was written in _The Daily Prophet_.

Severus looked around at all the many faces turned his way. They were slack, shocked, eyes wide and unblinking.

He stood quickly, and, with as much dignity as he could muster, reached out for the letters again, intending to sweep them into his pocket. But just when he thought things couldn't possibly get worse, the letters jumped back to life.

"AND ANOTHER THING—"

"I SUPPOSE ATTEMPTED MURDER WASN'T—"

"MIGHT HAVE DONE HER PERMANENT DAMAGE—"

"COULD HAVE KILLED—"

"OH, FOR MERLINS SAKE!" With a snarl of outrage, Severus stuffed the still screaming letters into the pocket of his robes and exited the Hall as fast as he could manage without actually full-out sprinting.

That stupid girl.

The things he got into for that stupid girl.

* * *

That poor man.

Hermione watched Snape tear out of the Great Hall amid barely muffled peals of laughter from her fellow students.

The things he got himself into, that poor man.

As Snape disappeared through the door, and a significant portion of the Great Hall's attention instantly turned to her, Hermione hurriedly packed up her stuff and made an equally hasty exit.

There was no mistaking what those howlers had been about — and whom. Yes, there was the rumor of Snape setting the Forbidden Forest on fire, but that was so questionable it was almost comical; there wasn't a shred of proof implicating him in that crime. What really bothered her (and how could it not) was knowing that there were people out there who thought Snape had kidnapped her and… well, who knows what else they thought. But it certainly wasn't good.

Poor Snape, poor thing. The corner of Hermione's mouth gave a weak twitch at the thought of the last time she had addressed him as 'poor thing.' Unsurprisingly, the twitch never quite made it into a smile.

Why had he canceled their lessons? What did that mean?

Did he truly think that it would be too risky, or was there something else Hermione had missed? Had she upset him in some way? That letter had been painfully formal. But, of course, why wouldn't it be? That was their deal. That was what they had decided was best — it wouldn't do for anyone, even Dumbledore, (especially Dumbledore), to find out about them. After all, who knew who might be snooping through her mail.

Surely Snape was aware of this, and yet he had still canceled the lessons. What did that mean? What if, without her around, he was re-thinking everything. What if he had suddenly decided that all of this really was _ludicrous_ after all, and he no longer wanted any part of it. Those howlers certainly hadn't helped anything. It was all so confusing! Why couldn't they just _be together_ and that be the end of it?

Hermione buried her face in her hands as she leaned against a space of wall between two suits of armor. All she wanted now was for finals to come, and with them, graduation. All she wanted was to be done. Done, fucking _done_ with this.

For the first time in her life, Hermione didn't care about the upcoming exams, she didn't care about playing catch-up with all of her missed assignments, she didn't care about grades — in the end, all of it was so insignificant in the face of death. A death that she, Hermione Granger, could have prevented.

* * *

Severus did not exactly _mean_ to bang the dungeon door open as loudly as he did, but was nonetheless amused by the startled jumps and looks of trepidation that it caused.

"Today, you will all be tested on the first stage of the _Luminetus_ potion. You were scheduled to begin work on stage two today, but, quite obviously, that is impossible without having completed stage one. All of the ingredients you will be needing have been set out in the back of the classroom for you. Come to me when you are in need of ogre's blood, and then I — and only I — will administer it to your potion. If you have been keeping up with the scheduled readings in my absence, this test should not be any problem." Severus reached his desk and sat down. "You _are_ being graded." He paused, his smirk widening. "Alright then. Off you go."

The class was in a state of shocked silence. Severus put out all the stops to keep the smugness from running rampant across his face; he was dead confident that he was about to send every single student's grade average running for its life. Even his little Slytherin pets were looking two blinks shy of nauseous.

"I said _go_," Severus snapped, and all at once the entire class jumped into bemused, wide-eyed action — grabbing things off shelves and putting them back seconds later, wandering aimlessly around the classroom "in search" of something, stirring their cauldrons even with nothing inside them — basically doing anything they could think of in order to appear as busy as possible.

Severus looked in Granger's direction, feeling a secret thrill of anticipation at seeing the Wonder-Brain of Gryffindor rifling nervously through her book (after all, how could she of all people possibly be caught up with the reading?)

But Granger was not rifling nervously through her book. Nor was she picking random things off the shelves, or wandering aimlessly around the classroom, or stirring an empty cauldron… She was sitting at her desk, hands folded in her lap, her eyes half-closed and staring vacantly at the tabletop. Neville Longbottom was in the chair next to her and nudging her shoulder anxiously, his normally pale face slightly green, his eyes round and lost.

Granger remained nonresponsive.

"Miss Granger," Severus said calmly.

Granger looked up. "Yes?" she replied, echoing his coolness, her demeanor unchanging.

Severus's eyebrows raised. "Is there a reason why you are not currently working? I did mention that this assignment was to be a graded, did I not?"

"Yes, sir, you did."

Severus's eyebrows continued to rise as Granger continued to sit in her chair, staring back at him with that same fathomless expression. "Well?" he snapped. "Get to work, then."

Granger took the slightest of pauses, then, "No, thank you," she said.

All movement ceased at once. Everyone was now looking open mouthed between teacher and student, an aura of sheer, utter disbelief hanging like a cloud in the air. There was not a single sound in the room — all except for the slow, steady dribble of Potter's Bergamot oil, which he was pouring a full five inches from the intended beaker and directly onto the tops of Weasley's shoes. Neither boy seemed to be taking any notice.

Several seconds passed before Severus managed to produce a response. "Excuse me?" he said at last, very slowly, very pointedly.

What was this girl playing at?

Longbottom still had his hand poised over Granger's shoulder and looked as though he might faint at any moment. Granger, however, remained calm and stony faced.

"I said, no, thank you, sir," she repeated. "I would rather not."

Dead silence reigned again. Even the dribbling had stopped — though this was not because Potter had realized what he was doing, he had simply run out of Bergamot oil. The empty jar in his hand still hovered comically in mid-air.

Severus stood from his chair and walked slowly towards Granger's desk. He stopped just inches from her empty cauldron and glared down at her. "Miss Granger," he hissed in a tone so quiet, so cold, so unmistakably full of danger that a unanimous shiver seemed to run through everyone in the room. "Either explain yourself immediately, or remove yourself from my classroom."

Granger actually had the nerve to shrug. "I haven't done the reading, Professor… I suppose I just don't see the point."

Again, Severus took an alarmingly long amount of time to process the girl's response. "Very well," he said at last, his voice sounding strangely tight, even to him. "_Sit_ there, then, and contemplate what this zero will do to your grade." Then Severus whipped his head around to glare at the still ogling students. "The rest of you," he barked. "Back to work!"

And they did — once more scurrying hurriedly from place to place, doing everything in their power to appear busy, while at the same time proving to be just as useless and unproductive as before. Even Longbottom had the good sense to make a run for the ingredients table in the back of the room.

Severus did not immediately leave Granger's desk, however. Daring to believe himself no longer the center of scrutiny (now that everyone had their projects to fret over), Severus allowed his mask to fall. Ever so slightly.

"What are you doing?" he hissed quietly.

Granger merely blinked at him, her mouth thinned and frowning.

As Severus glared back, he couldn't help but notice something strange in Granger's eyes — something dark and painful and desperately sad. How long had that been there? Since the cottage? Surely it was from… from when she… After all, there had to be something that changed about a person when they… died.

And yet, it wasn't that, was it? It wasn't that _she_ had died…

Severus managed to hold himself back from probing through her mind (it lay there so wide-open and vulnerable before him) — but only just. He lightly grazed the surface of her thoughts, the very tip of her emotions, and what he felt had nothing to do with what Frend had done to her, nothing to do, even, with the way Severus was treating her now. But it had do with a death — a different death than her own, a death she was still mourning and raging and linger over with an almost obsessive fervor.

Severus withdrew the finger of his mind sharply, as though stung. Was _this_ the reason she "didn't see the point"? Was _this_ the reason she had been moping about the castle for the past four days? Sirius Black?

That stupid man went and got himself killed and now Severus was paying for it. He hadn't expected to feel guilty, but the idea that Granger might hold him partially responsible for what happened put everything into a completely different light. After all, how could she _not_ blame him? How could she look at Severus and not be reminded of the choice she had been forced to make?

Severus stood there staring at the mess of a girl in front of him, hating the unexpected waves of emotion that coursed through him. And as another second ticked by, Severus's well-trained mind sensed danger. Sensed danger and took immediate action. With an almost audible clang, something inside him — a door, a latch, a gate, something he never knew had opened or even existed — slammed shut. His face hardened once more into a sheet of expressionless steel.

"Pathetic," Severus snarled in disgust, turning at last from Granger's desk and striding rigidly back to his own, he himself not even fully aware of what the carefully constructed defenses in his mind had just done.

* * *

_Was_ it pathetic? Hermione thought as she watched Snape's retreating back.

Yes, she supposed it was. No, she _knew_ it was — and yet she was powerless to stop it.

But 'pathetic' did not belong to the set of words her heart was looking for, and so Hermione remained as she was, sitting stoically at her table, watching Neville dump ingredients into his cauldron with an alarmingly hapless abandon.

She wanted to retain her quiet, stoic exterior, but some things just couldn't be ignored. "Neville," she whispered.

Neville instantly stopped what he was doing and gave Hermione his full, undivided attention. "Y-yes?"

"I don't know _what_ you're trying to brew there, but whatever it is, adding that newt's tail will probably make it explode. I think what you want is—"

"Oh, no you don't, Granger!" Snape barked unexpectedly from across the room.

Hermione's mouth snapped shut.

"You can sniffle and pout all you want, and mope around like a toddler who's lost her puppy, but don't you dare interfere with another student's work." Snape stood from his chair. "This is an _examination_, Miss Granger, and you have spoken out of turn for the last time — I am through putting up with your childish tantrums. Pack your things and leave my classroom this instant!"

She did so without saying a word.

* * *

It was midnight in the castle and Severus was stalking the hallways, miserable, angry, frustrated, wondering what the hell to do with himself.

Perhaps he had been a bit too harsh on Granger; she seemed so dangerously on edge lately, and certainly humiliating her in front of the entire class hadn't helped things. _But she asked for it_, whispered a nasty, silky little voice in the back of his head. _She's being pathetic and troublesome – like a mewling child. You were right to chastise her. To correct her_.

Severus gave himself a mental shake. In any case, it didn't matter. Whether his actions had been abnormally harsh or not, it was of no consequence. She had misbehaved, and he had put her promptly in her place. Solidly in her place. Cruelly in her place… No, not cruelly. She needed it. She needed a swift kick in the jaw to knock her back to her senses.

That feeling of unease began to creep back into Severus's stomach again. Why was he thinking these things? Shouldn't he be worried for her? After all, that was what someone did when they were…

Severus paused.

But they weren't… involved, were they? Not for the moment, at least — not while at school and under the persistent watchful eyes its many occupants. Still, shouldn't he be _fretting_ over her or something? Sending her precious little letters to get her through the days, giving her secret little winks when no one was watching, leaving soppy little notes on her homework…

Ugh. It was no use. All of those things sounded trite, embarrassing, and to be frank, downright nauseating.

Severus Snape was not the sort of person who _fretted_, who _pined_ over someone he could not have. Certainly Granger knew that.

But just as that dratted little mouth had spouted at him so long ago, ignoring something was not going make it "go away"— especially in _her_ case — and there was definitely something about her demeanor of late that signaled a problem of some sort. It had to do with Black's death, he knew, but was that all? Might there be something else?

Perhaps the Howlers, he thought. Severus knew the students of Hogwarts could be cruel, and as much as he himself despised the whispered conversations behind his back, he could only assume that it was the same, if not worse, for Granger. Perhaps there was more behind her strange behavior after all.

Severus frowned, deeply.

The seed of doubt in his mind was growing. Surely he had mistreated her. After she saved his life – saved his _damn_ life – he couldn't stop being a wanker long enough to give her a little slack. He was nettled into cruelty, and he shouldn't have let himself be so affected. So what if she blamed him? She had a right to, didn't she? Severus paused at that thought, a spark of something else growing unbidden in his mind.

_Did_ she blame him? Did she really? She had never said as much, never sent him a single accusatory glance.

Who did she hold accountable, then? Who did she mean to punish? Herself?

Severus climbed the last staircase on his way to the top floor of Hogwarts and commenced his final prowl for the night. Granger was upset, that much was obvious. So, why didn't someone just give her a new book and kiss her on the forehead and make it all better? Her idiot friends did their best, he supposed, but hanging all over her night and day, blithering and drooling like a bunch of poorly trained primates, surely only served to make matters worse. That wasn't what she needed — clowns and buffoonery, pesky little well-wishers latched to her side like a swarm of leeches. What she really needed was to talk to Dumbledore.

Severus had no idea how he knew this, but he did. Perhaps it stemmed from the fact that he himself had spent a fair amount of time in that strange, circular office, getting "a talking to." Admittedly, those visits were usually accompanied by generally good advice and, most importantly, a quiet presence who listened and nodded while he talked — a person who heard his problems without interruption and then responded as though he actually gave a flying fuck. If someone as distant and dark-spirited as Severus could find comfort in that, there was no telling what good it would do for Granger.

At the thought of her again, Severus felt weirdly stifled in the castle and longed to be in the open air. He made an immediate turn and headed for the Astronomy Tower. It should be a nice night, he thought. The weather had warmed up significantly, and with a light breeze on his face and a blanket of stars overhead, Severus felt as though his mind would be much clearer (though for what exact purpose he needed a clear head, he was not sure).

Severus opened a small wooden door and headed up the cramped spiral staircase.

The more he thought about Granger, the more he convinced himself that there was something very, very wrong with her – and the more he started to realize that not doing homework and sitting out exams might only be the beginning of something that could turn very nasty. At that realization, Severus felt his brain automatically reach for an emotion, and then, quite suddenly, was denied; as though there were a steel-plated door barring his way, Severus failed to attain something he was sure he should be feeling, but did not quite know how to find.

It puzzled him, but he let it go. He was used to denying emotional indulgence – and it was about time he reined himself in a little. That silly girl had caused far too much of an uproar in him already.

Severus opened the door at the top of the stairs and stepped out into the crisp night… only to be met with a most astonishing surprise:

There she was. Hermione Granger, still in her uniform robes, sitting precariously on the ledge of the tower with her legs dangling out into a fathomless expanse of open air.

Severus's whole chest seemed to give a colossal thud. The steel-plated door inside his mind clanged open and the words came bursting out of his mouth before he even knew what he was saying. "What are you doing—Get down from there!"

Granger, startled, whirled her head around to face him.

Severus hardly dared move. "Get down from there! Get down from there this instant!"

To his great surprise, Granger sounded mildly irritated. "I'm not going to jump or anything – _honestly_, Professor," she said, rolling her eyes. "I just came up for a little fresh air."

* * *

"Oh. I see."

Snape looked significantly embarrassed.

Hermione simply felt strange; she didn't have the first clue what to say next. They shared a long, awkward silence.

"You should not be out here after curfew," Snape said eventually. "Ten points from…"

Hermione raised her eyebrows.

Snape paused, then shot her a withering glare. "Never mind," he growled. "Stay up here and _get a little fresh air_ if that's what you want. I'm not your babysitter."

He turned to leave and Hermione's heart sank (but, seeing as there really wasn't much farther for her heart to sink, she didn't give it a lot of thought). Frowning, she turned back to look over the landscape beneath her. Frowning, frowning – always frowning now it seemed.

When another minute went by and Hermione still did not hear the Astronomy tower door close, she glanced back over her shoulder. Snape was standing there, looking at her with a strange expression on his face.

"It…" he started to say. His face screwed up a little as though he were thinking very hard about something. "It… was not your fault – Black, I mean. Bad things happen, people die, and it wasn't your fault. Blame anyone you want, the Dark Lord. Blame Frend. Blame God, I don't care. Just not yourself, is that clear? It was not your bloody fault."

There it was. Hermione felt as though someone had suddenly snipped free the rope to a heavy leaden weight that had previously been tied around her middle.

"Oh," she said quietly. Then, suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, she was crying – hard. "Oh," she said again, and this time it came out as a sob. Her shoulders were shaking and the grief of Sirius's death washed over her anew – only it was a different kind of grief than before, the sort of grief that she knew would eventually fade with time and a few good cries — not the sort that was tainted by guilt and only festered because of it, magnifying, getting heavier with each passing day. She hadn't even realized how heavy that weight had become until Snape released it just then.

She wanted to stop crying, but she couldn't. It was embarrassing, but she didn't care. At last, those were the words she had been searching for all this time, and _bloody hell_ did it feel good to hear them.

With three quick footsteps and a rustle of robes, Snape was instantly at her side. He didn't touch her, or reach out to her; he simply stood there. Did he even realize what he had said? What it meant to her?

At first Hermione thought that for him to just stand there would be enough – that she would be comforted by the mere presence of his body. An instant later, however, she had hurled herself off the balcony railing and into his arms, hugging him so tightly that the buttons of his shirt dug painfully into her cheek.

As usual, he stiffened beneath her touch, his arms turning rigid at his sides as he let out a short, clipped gasp of surprise.

"I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry," she sobbed into his chest. "This is s-so s-stupid – I don't even kn-know why I'm — you must think I'm—I'm completely deranged—"

Snape heaved an impatient sigh. "For such a bright witch," he muttered into her ear. "You are, at the same time, paralyzingly stupid. I'd express surprise, but you do have a rather stubborn obtuseness to you that I have never quite understood."

Hermione stopped crying immediately and pulled back to give him a very hurt look. "W-what did you say?"

Snape reciprocated with an uncharacteristic roll of the eyes. "For Merlin's sake, Hermione. If you took a minute to actually asses, to look at the situation for how it really happened, and not through eyes blinded by that ridiculous, self-sacrificing hero-complex you Gryffindors seem so fond of contracting, you would not have been so… You would not have needed _me_ to tell you that… Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Hermione stared at him blankly.

Snape's mouth twitched. "Wise-up, you foolish twit. You can't go taking responsibility that doesn't belong to you. It's brazen and idiotic, and, to be quite honest, the most unflattering thing about you. Well, that and your constant hand-raising, but here's to hoping you have mostly outgrown the latter."

Hermione's cheeks puffed out and her eyes narrowed angrily. OH! That _man_! "You… you…" she spluttered at him, her face growing hot and red. She was so furious she didn't even know where to begin. "You…"

Snape grunted, sounding slightly amused. "Well, you think on that for a bit and get back to me tomorrow. By then I'm certain you will have managed to conceive a perfectly pithy and juvenile remark to finish that sentence – and I must say I look forward to the points I will undoubtedly be deducting from Gryffindor the instant you deign to share it." With that, Snape detached himself from her arms, turned sharply, walked the short distance to the Astronomy tower door, opened it, and left.

It was a good ten minutes before Hermione followed suit, a good two hours before she realized Snape had said her name, and it was a good eight hours before she decided exactly what she was going to do about it.

* * *

A/N: Please forgive angst!Hermione. I promised her at least one chapter.  
She will be in her trailer if anyone needs her.


	21. Butting Heads

**Chapter Twenty-One**

What a glorified wanker.

Voldemort was still at large, the Order had lost its most valuable resource, and here she was, Hermione Granger, slobbering after a no good, soul-sucking, pain-in-the-arse prat. And nothing, it seemed, was going to change that. Not even his personality.

Yet, Hermione couldn't help a small smirk from creeping onto her face as she sat at the edge of her bed, pulling on her socks. Today was double potions – and, as her previous encounter in potions class had taught her, there was no better place for a confrontation. Because however many quippy remarks, snide comments, thinly-veiled (or painfully blunt) insults he threw at her, there was nowhere for Severus Snape to escape. He _had_ to talk to her. She was his student, he was her teacher, and as long as she didn't give him a justifiable reason to send her packing, he was required to give her the attention she desired.

Once again, Hermione realized that the plan she had concocted (the things she wished to say to him) could easily have been executed by use of owl mail, but, as always, she firmly believed that a face-to-face encounter was the best possible option. Now that she found herself slightly less wrapped up in her own remorse, her head was clear again and her willpower sharpened and stronger than ever. Certainly, the sadness was not entirely gone, and every time she thought about Sirius her insides felt suddenly very hollow. But she was strangely more accepting of it all now – more inclined to believe that everything truly would be "alright" in the end. It was uncomfortable and wearying, but manageable all the same.

Finished dressing for the day, Hermione stood up and swiped her book bag off her chair. Her eyebrows seemed to furrow of their own accord as she made her way down the stairs, out the portrait hole, and through the maze of Hogwarts castle to breakfast.

She still had no idea if this plan would work – especially considering the fact that the word "plan" was a sadly generous term. It wasn't so much a plan as it was a theory, an _attempt_, perhaps. A valiant stab at shaping her own future. There were things she wanted (things she knew _he_ wanted) and the only way for both of them to get those things was for her, Hermione, to be the grown-up and take initiative. She wanted to be with Snape, and so help her, she wasn't going to let a few silly rules and snarky sarcasm get in the way.

She only hoped she wouldn't lose too many House points…

* * *

Severus Snape despised teaching. Why he had continued to do it over the past seventeen years, despite his blatant distaste for the position, was painfully apparent (double agent and all that); why he continued to do it _now_ however, now that his identity had been revealed, was in all other ways completely inconceivable.

He detested children. He loathed stupidity. So it would only follow that one of the greatest banes of Severus Snape's life would be stupid children. Something that Hogwarts had in abundance.

There they were, every day, an endless line of blubbering, fumbling, inattentive Longbottoms who dissolved into shivering, pathetic messes at the slightest provocation, turning their woe-begotten eyes and trembling lips to their friends every time they made a mistake and were justly punished for it. If not for the joys of unprovoked detentions and snatching House points from their grubby, undeserving little fingers, Severus would have gone stark raving mad years ago.

Yet, every now and then, there came a student whose brilliance was like a breath of fresh air. Someone with a cool head, steady hands and a sharp wit — who could read a problem, calculate it noiselessly in their head, and deal with it promptly and efficiently — who did not crumple or balk at harsh guidance, but took it in stride.

Hermione Granger was just such a student.

She had the word POTENTIAL plastered in big red letters across her forehead, and Severus was undoubtedly one of many who wondered (perhaps with a bit of jealousy) what that potential would eventually blossom into. She had her whole life set out in front of her, an endless array of choices to be made, paths to take, deeds to be done, differences to make – and, once again, Severus was undoubtedly one of many who wished that _they_ had such an array spread out before _them_. It was not something Severus was proud of, but there was no denying the fact that could he go back in time, there were more than a few things he would have definitely done differently.

In any case, the way Severus saw it, nowhere within Granger's vast expanse of potential did he consider himself a positive influence. Perhaps as a mentor – yes, there was no question that the girl could be a legendary Potions Mistress if she sought it, and there was equally no question that he would be an asset in that regard.

But in all other ways – in all _romantic_ ways – Severus did not see the potential, therefore he did not understand it.

Hermione Granger was not an idiot, that much was clear. So it disturbed Severus when she did things not in-keeping with that brilliant disposition. Why did she want to be with him? Of all the people in the world, why him? Why not someone younger? Someone nicer? Someone not so obviously wrapped up in writhing tendrils of guilt and impending doom?

It was all very suspicious.

Though, Severus supposed he could simply chalk it up to a lack of common sense, which, in all honesty, would explain an awful lot. After all, one had only to look at the company with which she surrounded herself every day to be assured of that assessment. Potter and Weasley – surefire piss-for-brain dolts if he ever saw a pair. And even Granger had to recognize the helpless train wreck that was so ungracefully embodied in Neville Longbottom.

What she needed (yet did not pursue) was to be surrounded by those who would encourage her studies, stimulate her, inspire her, share her passion for progress and knowledge. Severus always wondered what she was doing in Gryffindor – Ravenclaws seemed to be so much more her type.

…And yet, did they?

Granger had certainly betrayed her lioness spirit from time to time (many of them while saving his life – his _damn_ life!), so Severus supposed he could see how she might fall into that big-chested group of ruffians. Still… there had been a question – even in Granger's own mind – about whether or not Gryffindor had been the right choice.

Severus had not forgotten his little foray into her mind. Their Occlumancy lessons. He remembered very distinctly the few painful minutes Granger had sat debating with the Sorting Hat dropped low over head, weighing each House against the other with a detailed list of pros and cons she-had-devised-and-referenced-from-some-book-or-another.

That thought almost caused Severus to smile, but he repressed it.

It would not do for him to go around _smiling_ in front of a classroom full of students.

He blinked as he realized that all of said students were now gazing at him expectantly; apparently the first bell had rung, and he, lost in thought, had been unaware. He instantly collected himself.

"Stage two—" Severus barked, and a Slytherin girl in the front row gave a startled jump. "—of the _Luminetus_ potion, will unfortunately have to wait until next week. Needless to say, every one of you failed in spectacular form on yesterday's test and will therefore need to start over with a fresh attempt at stage one today. I trust you have all caught up on the reading this time around? Let yesterday's disaster be a reminder: Laziness, idleness, failure to keep up with your assignments, will _not_ be tolerated in this classroom. This is a N.E.W.T. level course, and I expect you to treat it as such. I expect only the best from those of you who _deigned_ to take it."

All eyes were on him, unblinking – terrified, but, it seemed, more or less "up to the challenge." Because the instant he snapped, "Begin!" everyone instantly leapt into a much more productive and accurate state of action than their previous, rather comical flounderings. Granger too, it seemed, had done her reading.

Severus easily noted that the girl was much more chipper today than she had been before, much less dull, and that worrisome glaze had mercifully retreated from her eyes. Her countenance had improved immensely, all except for the fact that she was undeniably miffed about something.

Severus thought he knew exactly what that something was, and, in all honesty, he didn't blame her. He knew only too well how nettling his remarks had been the night before; in fact, he had said them with no other purpose in mind.

Because, besides the fact that he generally just enjoyed pushing people's buttons, Severus also felt the desperate need to distance himself from Granger. He knew that if he had allowed her to speak plainly to him that night on the tower, if he had allowed himself to hold on to her a little bit longer, allowed himself even the tiniest slice of emotional indulgence, it would have been that much harder to rein himself in again.

After all, just because he appeared so adept at falling back into his former role as snarky professor, that did not mean he was not continuously overcome by the desire to throw her up against the nearest wall, slip a hand beneath that infernal skirt, and take her shuddering and moaning into the next world.

Watching her methodically dice her ginger root, pausing a moment to pull that abundance of hair away from her face, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth – he found himself quite willing to throw her up against that wall right now... if not for their arrangement. And the presence of twenty or so other students in the room. Though he couldn't help but take a brief moment to amuse himself with the image of Longbottom's face under such circumstances. The worthless lump would probably faint dead away. Or wet his pants. Or both. Probably both.

In any case, Severus needed the distance, Granger needed the distance, and as long as she stayed at her desk and him at his, he fully expected that things would go right back to normal. Which is just the way he wanted it.

* * *

Hermione double-checked her book one last time to make sure that she had done everything properly, set the fire under her cauldron at a low simmer, and promptly raised her hand.

_Now or never_, she thought to herself. _Class is almost over, and if I'm going to do this, it's got to be_—

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

Hermione swallowed the dry lump in her throat. "It is my understanding, Professor," she said, with what she hoped was a confident voice, "that I still have five remaining detentions to fulfill."

Even though he was sitting down, it was obvious in that moment that Snape's entire demeanor changed, became instantly wary. He was caught unbelievably off-guard.

The two of them shared a look, and Hermione couldn't help but smile slightly.

_That's right, you clever thing_, she thought with no small amount of smugness. _You're not escaping me this time_.

Hermione paid very little attention to the rest of her classmates, but in the back of her mind, she had the vague realization that this was perhaps the second strangest thing she had ever said in class – and following only twenty-four hours after what was undoubtedly the first. There was no telling what everyone thought of her. She assumed it was something along the lines of St. Mungo's.

Snape, in usual Snape fashion, recovered himself quickly. He cleared his throat. "Actually, I believe it was _four_ detentions, Miss Granger, but I don't—"

"Oh, yes," she interrupted sharply before he could shut her down. "Four detentions – you're right, Professor – or, four and a half, rather, but that's hardly worth a quibble. In any case, sir, I was wondering what time you would like to begin?"

"I — Given the present circumstances, I might be willing to overlook—"

_No you don't_, she thought, and jumped in again. "No, no, I wouldn't dream of shirking my responsibilities, Professor, I am Head Girl after all. Is eight o'clock alright, sir? Where should I meet you?"

"Miss Granger, you really needn't—"

"Here, perhaps, or at your office?"

Again, Hermione was focusing all of her attention on Snape and spared none for her classmates. They might as well not have been there as far as she was concerned, except for the fact that their presence prevented Snape from outright denying her. Because who had ever heard of Snape saying _no_ to a detention? He practically handed them out like candy. If Snape handed out candy. Which he didn't. Because he handed out detentions instead.

Snape, meanwhile, was glaring daggers, his body language suggesting quite clearly that he knew what she was trying to do and that as a result, his most potent desire was to wrap his hands around her neck and squeeze extremely hard.

_Silly man_, she thought. _You can't get rid of me that easily_.

* * *

Severus took a very long time to respond.

Twice now, she had thrown him for a loop, and right in the middle of a teaching! This had to stop. And it had to be stopped quietly.

Severus smoothed down his ruffled feathers, slipping on a mask of cool confidence once again. "Has your most recent visit to the hospital wing addled your senses, Miss Granger, or do you simply not remember?"

Granger's snippy little smirk disappeared in a flash. "Pardon me?"

Severus folded his arms loosely behind his back. "We have already discussed this at great length," he lied easily. "If you remember, I set up your detention with Mr. Filch yesterday."

Granger's face was starting to redden. "But sir, I don't recall—"

"There is no need to visit my office tonight, Miss Granger," he continued. "Simply join Mr. Filch in the trophy room at half-past nine – I must say I am surprised at your forgetfulness. It is hardly appropriate for the Head Girl to be so irresponsible."

Her eyes were very round. "I — no — but you—"

Severus pressed on. "Please do not bother me with such trivial nonsense again, Miss Granger, your memory lapses are not of my concern. However if you _do_ feel the overwhelming need to pester someone, I suggest that you do so by owl, and not simply blurt it out in the middle of class. There are other, more responsible students attempting, admittedly in their own limited way, to learn. Honestly, Miss Granger—" He smirked. "Where are your manners?"

* * *

That horrible man! That horribly, slippery, brutish, devious, ungrateful, _horrible_ man!

The desire to reach out and knock over her bubbling cauldron with an angry sweep of her arm was almost overpowering. But Hermione suppressed it. Storming out in a huff was not going to get her what she wanted – it would only serve to embarrass her (and not to mention lose Gryffindor a hefty chunk of well-earned points).

So, instead she did something only slightly less immature: she sulked.

The first stage of her potion was done well before everyone else, so Hermione had little to do except sit and glare at her offending professor (who, unsurprisingly, did not look her way).

When class was over, and after Professor Snape had finished inspecting everyone's progress, they all stood up to leave – all except Hermione. She remained in her chair.

Snape, however, caught on quickly and he too packed up his things and headed for the door.

"Professor Snape—" she called after him.

He stopped and turned at the open doorway to give her a half-scathing, half-triumphant look. "Detention, Miss Granger," he said smoothly. "Nine-thirty. Mr. Filch. Trophy room. Don't be late."

Then he closed the door and was gone.

Hermione found herself fuming all alone once again, and wondering belatedly whether she would ever have a conversation with the man again in which she would actually come out the victor.

The odds did not seem likely.

* * *

Hermione was just leaving the library when Ron cornered her. They hadn't been alone together since before Hermione's capture, and she was not quite sure where their relationship stood. Was he still angry at her for slapping him? Was he embarrassed? Knowing Ron, it was probably a whole manner of things.

"Hermione," Ron said in a surprisingly quiet voice, pulling her down an empty hallway. "I've been meaning to talk to you all week, but I could never get you alone. Listen, I wanted to… Well obviously, I mean, I wanted to ask you about… Well, you know…"

Hermione, tired, cranky, not to mention still fuming over a completely different failed relationship, did not feel like playing games.

"Yes, Ron, I know what you want to talk about. And I wish there was something else I could tell you, a better way to say it, but I really can't make it any nicer. I like you. You are dear to me, and I would do anything for you – of course you know that. But… I don't really, It's just that... Alright, I'm just going to say it. I don't like you _that way_, Ron, and I would prefer it if we could just forget the whole thing – just put all this silliness behind us, don't you think?"

Ron's face momentarily transformed into something harsh and shadowed. An expression that made Hermione feel very uneasy.

"Silliness?" he echoed darkly.

In the lingering wake of that echo, Hermione found herself briefly thrown back to another moment in which a very similar word had been used in a very similar fashion, only it was she who was on the receiving end of it. It had been raining and her heart had been broken. _Foolishness_.

Hermione hurried to amend. "I mean – not silliness, you're right, Ron. What I mean is… You see, it's hard really to put into words exactly, but—"

But Ron interrupted her. "Who is he?" he said suddenly.

Hermione opened her mouth at once, and yet it took a full ten seconds to actually produce a response. "What?" she asked dryly.

Ron's frown deepened. "I'm not angry, I won't get angry, just tell me. If you don't like me, then you must have someone else in mind. Who is he?"

Alright. This was a sticky situation. _Oh bugger_, Hermione thought, as her mind reeled for an answer. If she told him that there was no one, then he would only be more hurt and embarrassed. If she told him someone random, he could easily find out that she had lied. And if she told him it was Snape… well, let's face it, she wasn't going to tell him it was Snape. (Though Hermione couldn't help being slightly curious about what Ron's reaction would be if she did).

"He's um…he's…" Hermione took a deep breath. "Look, Ron – I don't think telling you his name is going to get us anywhere."

"There _is_ someone! I _knew_ it!" Ron was starting to look positively scarlet.

"No – I mean yes, there is, but I don't think you understand what I'm—"

"Some wanker, is it?" Ron hissed angrily. "Some pea-brained git, is that it? You probably like them dumb so you can boss them around and tell them what to study—"

"That's not fair, Ron – and he is actually _very_ clever – But that's not the poi—"

"Just a no-good pretty boy like Krum, then, is he?"

"Victor was not a _pretty boy_! And neither is—"

"OH, SO HE'S UGLY?"

"There's no need to shout Ron—"

"OF COURSE HE COULDN'T BE UGLIER THAN ME, NO, BECAUSE I'M DOWNRIGHT DISGUSTING TO YOU AREN'T I—"

"Ron, _please_ stop shout—"

"I CAN DAMN WELL SHOUT IF I BLOODY WANT TO! AND YOU—"

"Are going to lose fifty points from Gryffindor if you keep that up, Weasley."

Both Hermione and Ron whirled immediately around to face what they had previously thought to be an empty classroom.

It _was_ an empty classroom – but only because the man who had previously been occupying it, had just stepped into the hallway.

Severus Snape strode slowly from the doorway and straight to Hermione's side, staring coolly at Ron beneath dark, raised eyebrows all the way.

Ron gaped back, his mouth still hanging open as the redness rapidly receded from his face.

Hermione too, stared dumbly back.

How long had he been there? she wondered. What had he heard? Either way, she was marginally sure that this was shaping up to be a very unpleasant experience.

As the silence pressed on, Snape gave Ron a stern look. "Move along, Weasley. I need to speak with Miss Granger."

"I – but we were—" he spluttered.

"It is in regards to her detention this evening, and is subsequently none of your business. Do not make me tell you again, or I will be happy to give you several detentions of your own. _Move along_."

Ron looked for a brief moment as though he were going to argue, but then his face hardened again, and he gave Hermione another dark look. "Fine," he said shortly. "I don't even care." Then he slouched away.

Ignoring the twinge of guilt she felt as Ron slunk off, Hermione turned back to Snape, a big fat question mark written plainly across her face.

Snape remained as cool and expressionless as ever. "It seems Mr. Filch was mistaken about his availability this evening," he said bluntly. "Therefore, due to his characteristically poor scheduling abilities, it seems that your spot has, unfortunately, already been filled."

"Oh," Hermione replied.

"_Oh_, indeed," said Snape gruffly. "In any case, I suppose I will have to take the task upon myself… yet again." Snape gave an impatient sight. "My office, Miss Granger. Nine o'clock. And don't—"

"Be late. Yes, sir — I'll be there."

"Hm," was all Snape offered in reply. Then he too turned and strode away.

Hermione felt as though there should be a whole plethora of things racing through her mind at that moment – but all she could think about was the possibility that things were starting to go her way again. Whether by accident or design (had Snape planned this?) Hermione would at last have Snape to herself. One way or another, she was resolved to get to the bottom of _something_ tonight. One way or another, Snape was going to talk, she was going to talk, and they were finally going to sort it all out, no matter what it took. Though she sincerely hoped it wouldn't involve pickling any discarded animal limbs.

* * *

Why had he done that?

Severus mentally slapped himself. That had been _stupid._ Stupid, bloody stupid.

He hadn't meant to listen in on their conversation. Honestly, it was hard not to, what with Weasley carrying on like a deranged five year-old.

And he hadn't meant to interfere either – but it was something about the tone of her voice that had compelled him to act. She had been talking about _him_, defending _him_, hiding _him_, and all of a sudden he had felt extremely childish for avoiding her. He realized just how juvenile he had been acting (comparatively speaking – next to Weasley, he seemed downright responsible), and that it was in no way proper for Granger, the student, to have to act like the adult. Especially when it was he who was mostly responsible for the whole thing to begin with.

As Severus had stood there listening, feeling slightly guilty for it, he found himself begrudgingly coming to the conclusion that perhaps he did owe Granger a little more than he was giving. Perhaps he did owe her a say and a private confrontation. Because, in all honesty, he was the most to blame, he was the instigator. There was no question that it had been he, Severus Snape, who was first to lay his lips upon hers.

* * *

It was early evening and Hermione, Ginny, Harry and Ron were all sitting by the fire in the Gryffindor common room after dinner. Harry and Ron were playing chess and Ginny had been giving Hermione strange looks over her Transfiguration homework for the past half-hour.

Finally Hermione couldn't stand it anymore and asked, quite snippily, "Well? What is it? Why do you keep staring at me?" She was convinced it had something to do with Ron (because even though she had not divulged to anyone what had happened, she assumed that Ron had told Harry and Harry, in turn, had told Ginny – they were dating after all).

Ginny flashed a surreptitious glance at the two boys sitting at the next table before saying in a low whisper, "Alright, Hermione, I think it's been long enough now."

Hermione felt slightly taken aback, not only by what had been said, but also by the apparent secrecy involved. "What?" she asked, hesitantly mimicking Ginny's quiet whisper.

"You know what I mean." Ginny seemed slightly wary, but at the same time ready to fight for whatever it was that she wanted. "I'm your friend and I think I have a right to know what happened to you. You were gone for almost a month – who knows where – with all sorts of people after you – and we were all losing our minds. We know the basics, but I'm sure there are plenty of things you haven't told us. Just girl to girl here, Hermione. Spill it."

_First Ron, now Ginny_, Hermione thought, slightly exasperated. It seemed as though all anyone wanted from her today was information she did not care to give.

But in the split second that Hermione was developing her reply, she began to think that perhaps it would be nice to tell someone what had really happened. Dumbledore knew most of it, of course, but Snape had been the one to tell him, not Hermione. She wanted a chance to tell her side of the events (with the obvious exclusion of anything and everything to do with her and Professor Snape's relationship).

It would be a bit rocky around the actual attack on the cottage, in particular her brief exeunt from life, but maybe it would be good to get it all out.

How was she going to explain why she had stayed, though? That was the really tricky part. How was she going to explain why she had chosen to remain, and not follow Sirius – a man whom they all knew and loved (as opposed to Snape, whom they all, most assuredly, did not).

_Damn it_, she thought. _I'll just have to think of something. Harry always shared with us, no matter how weary or painful the memory, and now it's my turn_.

Hermione took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're right, Ginny. You deserve to know – you all do." She said the last bit loud enough for Ron and Harry to hear.

They turned to look at her (though Ron did not quite meet her eyes).

And then, slowly at first, but with a growing determination, Hermione told them everything; starting from the moment she was captured in the Forbidden Forest, to the minute she stumbled through Dumbledore's office fireplace with Sirius's death roaring like a hurricane in her ears.

It was strange recounting everything, reliving it. Surprisingly, the more she told, the better she felt – less like she was hiding something and more as though she were truly part of their close circle of friends again.

Her audience made few interruptions throughout the tale, every now and again throwing in the odd comment ("Snape _saved_ you?" or "A church? Really?" or "You were _blonde_?").

When at last Hermione reached the part of her story in which the Death Eaters appeared, when Sirius had grabbed her hand, dragged her up the stairs, and brought her before the portkey, she had it all set up in her mind to simply blurt it out – all of it – the whole truth of why she had stayed… But then, for some reason she couldn't quite pin down, Hermione did something that she rarely ever did, and hoped she would never have to do to her friends:

She lied.

"You see I… I thought we were going to grab the portkey on the count _after_ three — and Sirius went _on_ three… I had no time to react – I just—"

"Hermione, it's okay."

Hermione looked, rather startled, at Harry. She had not expected him to speak first, nor so kindly. He was giving her a slightly forced, slightly pained smile, and Hermione's heart thudded guiltily.

"It's okay," he said again. "I mean, it's not like you did it on purpose – it was just an accident."

_Right_, Hermione thought. _An accident_.

"Keep going," Ginny encouraged.

Ron, staring determinedly into the fire, said nothing.

So Hermione continued. She went through everything. Through her narrow escape off the balcony, her transformation (they too — though they were the only ones besides Snape – oh dear, had he told Dumbledore? — knew about her Animagus form), Frend's appearance, the terrifying battle that ensued. Then she paused just before the moment in which Frend's _Avada Kedavra_ had blasted her full in the face.

In that brief moment, Hermione realized how difficult it would all be to explain. Even now, a week later, Hermione still had no idea what that potion had done to her. She assumed it was the potion – for honestly, there was no other variable that made the least bit of sense. What else could it have been? And just as equally strong was Hermione's confidence that, out of all the things she put in that potion, the real key to it had been the single golden hair. That little shred of life power (her life power) and the ancient workings of _Largitio_ that had kept her from death.

Maybe she could explain the potion – the basics of it anyway – but if she brought that up, she would also be forced to explain where that hair had come from, and what had happened to her the first time she saved Snape's life (details from that night were widely unknown as well).

The difficulty of it all made Hermione's head ache, and a split second later, she decided to simply skip over the whole death thing completely. It wasn't all that that important anyway...right?

_Especially since there isn't any proof,_ she thought angrily. _I never grabbed the potion before we left, and now…_ Well, there wasn't any _Largitio_ left to make a new one. She had used it up, taken the magic back into herself, and she seriously doubted (and in all honesty hoped) that there wouldn't be another chance to replicate it – as that would require yet another life-threatening disaster to take place.

An hour later, Hermione was making her way down to Professor Snape's office, her head still swimming with all the things she hadn't said, and she wished, not for the first time, that her life would stop being so bloody complicated.

* * *

The knock was not quiet, not timid or polite. It was sharp. Insistent. Annoying. It could only be Granger.

"Enter," Severus said at once, sounding much calmer than he actually felt. Briefly – and for what was perhaps the hundredth time in the past hour – the notion of how stupid he was being thumped Severus squarely between the eyes.

Then Granger entered, and momentarily the sting from that thump became substantially less noticeable.

Unbeknownst to him, it appeared as though Severus had somehow developed a weakness for the girl when she was in this particular state: flustered, irritated, positively ignited about something. Her complexion had a rosy glow about it and that hair of hers entered a realm entirely of its own. One look at her, so determined, so small and defiant, and Severus's mind instantly flooded with memories of the way her soft body had felt beneath his, the thrill of her hands on his chest and in his hair, the way she moved when he—

"Professor—"

Severus snapped to attention. He opened his mouth, but Granger promptly cut him off.

"Before you start me off on some torturous task – which, justified or not, I'm certain I will inevitably end up doing – I am going to ask you right out. What am I really doing here?" Granger was now standing directly in front of his desk. "I'm sure we could have a very long conversation in which we dodge awkwardly around this question for a few hours before ending up in the same place we started — probably because you have somehow backed me into yet another verbal corner, or simply assaulted me with the appropriate amount of colorful insults. But in all honesty, Professor, I don't feel like doing that tonight. I'm tired of playing games, especially when they always seem to blow up in my face, and for once I just want the simplest possible answer. What am I doing here?"

Severus did not take long to respond. "Well," he said sharply, "as much as I enjoyed that eloquent display of girlish petulance, Miss Granger, I'm afraid that I don't—"

"STOP!" Granger stamped her foot as she let out an exclamation of sheer frustration (and subsequently, another perfect display of girlish petulance). "YOU did this to ME! You were the one who asked me here tonight, knowing full well it had nothing to do with 'scheduling problems.' I know you did not talk to Filch, and there was therefore no proper reason for you to stick your nose into a private conversation that—"

"If you are talking about Weasley, I must say that was hardly _private_. The boy was all but wailing like a—"

"It doesn't matter! You had no right to—"

"_He_ had no right."

That got her attention. "…Pardon me?" she said, momentarily startled out of her rant. To say Granger looked surprised was grossly understating it. "Professor, I…"

Perhaps that had been a bit strong. Severus backpedalled. "I mean to say, you should not have allowed him to embarrassed you like that."

Granger recovered quickly and responded with a surprisingly clever, snide sort of edge to her voice. "You mean out there in the hall? Yes, very well, _Professor_ – it would have been much more appropriate for him wait until we were in a classroom full of students before commencing his assault."

There followed a small, shocked window of time in which Severus had no idea what expression crossed his face. "Hm," he eventually managed to grunt. "Walked right into that one, didn't I? How very unlike me."

Then suddenly, quite out of nowhere, the tension was gone. He hadn't really meant it to be a joke, but that was undoubtedly how it had come across.

Granger smiled hesitantly.

Severus did not return the smile. All the same, something in his chest gave one tiny, almost imperceptible flutter. "In any case, Miss Granger," he continued. "That being said, I must confess I haven't the faintest idea how to answer your question. I don't believe I fully understand what you want me to say."

To his slight annoyance, Granger walked over to a nearby table, grabbed a chair, and hauled it back to his desk. Then she set it down directly across from him and settled herself in it as though she fully expected to have a long, heart to heart confrontation.

Severus groaned inwardly. He knew she would want to talk about _feelings_.

* * *

Despite her previous statement that she actually expected to fulfill a detention in the next two hours, Hermione now withheld no such expectation. She had been surprised, pleased by her own bravado, and at how many things had actually come out of her mouth (though honestly, with all the different thoughts bouncing around inside her head at any given time, it _was _rather hard to keep track sometimes of what she verbalized).

She hadn't exactly planned beyond her initial monologue, and now here was Snape, asking her what she wanted him to say. Yet Hermione found that privately, she hadn't the faintest idea.

Surely deep down, she harbored some sort of wild fantasy about a soppy, heartfelt confession of love and admiration, of how hard it had been for him over the past week to be so mean, how hard it had been for him to push her away when really he was aching to be with her every minute of every day, and after all this why didn't they just put the whole thing behind them and shag each other senseless on the classroom floor right now?

But it was very, very deep down.

For, Hermione Granger, Head Girl of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was a realistic sort of person, who more or less made a good go at keeping her hopes and ideals at a relatively sensible level.

Hermione looked across the table at her one, rather large, exception to that otherwise grounded persona.

She sighed. "It's not that I want you to say anything in particular, Professor – quite obviously you feel what you feel, and there isn't much I can do, nor should do, to change that – but I was really just sort of hoping you might…" She repressed another sigh (best not to seem too exasperated within the first five minutes). "I suppose, I'm not sure exactly – Though," she narrowed her eyes at him, "putting away some of that delightful sarcasm for a minute or two would be an excellent start."

In the past few seconds, Snape's face had somehow become closed and unreadable again. "You are asking _me_ to be honest, Miss Granger?" His voice was hard as iron. "The fact is, you yourself brought up the incomplete detentions, not I. I merely tried – and admittedly failed – to detain you. If anyone should be explaining your presence here, it's you. Though I feel obligated to point out that you did promise me a detention, and it would be dishonorable of you renege on that boast now."

"You know very well I am not here for detention," Hermione snapped back irritably. "All I wanted was to get you alone so we could talk, and anyway who are _you_ to talk to me about honoring promises?"

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Then it was too late.

Though Snape's face betrayed nothing, and his demeanor did not visibly change, Hermione felt the room slip into a deathly quiet. Danger, she realized, suddenly seemed to be seeping from the professor's very pores.

"Why shouldn't I talk to you about honor, Miss Granger?" he said slowly, and his voice sent one single, terrible chill down Hermione's spine.

In all this time they had been together, only once had Hermione ever questioned Snape's moral code, and even then she had been quick to realize her mistake.

If ever there was to be something worthwhile between them, Hermione realized that she was going to have to be a great deal more careful about what she said. For the time being, Snape's past was inaccessible. She needed to refrain from dredging it up, or he would never trust her.

Hermione swallowed thickly. "Sorry – I mean, I was just… irritated. I… I didn't mean to say… It just came out. I don't know why – I was just caught up. Sorry."

Snape paused, looked as though her were going to say more on the subject, and then, unceremoniously, dropped it altogether. "Regardless," Snape said dismissively (though Hermione could tell, somehow, that her comment had affected him far more than he was showing), "you still have not answered the question at hand."

"No, Professor," Hermione said quietly, shaking her head. "I did answer the question. I am here to talk. That's all. What I want to know from you is – what made you change your mind? Surely you knew what I wanted when I spoke to you in class, and you took obvious pains to avoid it. But now you aren't. I just want to know why?"

Hermione could tell he was mulling something over furiously in his head, and it frustrated her that she didn't know what it was.

A minute ticked by. And then another.

Hermione began to get fidgety.

"Professor—" she started at last, but Snape silenced her with a look.

"Do you know why I did not want you to come here alone, Miss Granger?" he said finally, shattering the silence all over again.

She snapped an instant reply. "Because you weren't in the mood to listen to me yammer away at you about _feelings_, I expect?"

Snape looked surprised – only for a moment. Then he was stoic again. "No," he said, and this time it was Hermione's turn to be surprised. Snape paused again before correcting himself. "Perhaps that was a little bit of it, yes. But, the real reason…" A flicker of unease surfaced behind his mask. He was struggling, Hermione could tell (though the question in her mind was whether that struggle was for good or for bad). Was he struggling to say something because it was uncomfortable, or was he struggling because it would hurt her feelings?.

Hermione leaned forward slightly, trying to rein in the almost overwhelming surge of hope that seemed to be bubbling up inside her at that moment; _please say it's because you want to be with me, go on, say it, say it—_

The tiny movement of her body towards his seemed to be all it took to finally push Snape over that invisible line he had been teetering on. Only, it pushed him the other way – the wrong way. He shrank away from her, into himself again, and Hermione felt all her hope simmer away into nothing again.

Snape shook his head angrily. "This is idiotic," he hissed. "Never mind, Granger, you were correct. I _don't_ want to hear you blabbering at me. Now, please, if you are not going to take responsibility for those detentions, then I suggest you leave. The quicker the better."

"But Professor, I—"

"Get out of my sight!"

Hermione, her teeth grinding, stood up so fast that her chair clattered spectacularly to the ground. "FINE!" she shrieked, not even bothering to pick it up. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'm sure it would only have been insulting anyway!" She gave another strangled, furious yell and then stormed towards the door.

Hermione grabbed the handle, pulled it, and was just about to step out into the hall, when suddenly, he was behind her.

Snape reached over Hermione's head and slammed the door right in her face. The handle slipped from her fingers and she spun on the spot, looking up to find her professor towering over her, so close he seemed to swallow up the entire world around them. He smelled like… cedar and hearth fire. There was also the faint hint of something else. A spice maybe.

Snape was close to shaking with fury, his coal black eyes so narrowed they were almost closed. When he spoke his voice was rough, violent.

Hermione could feel every thud of her heart resonate like an earthquake through her body.

"Because," Snape growled, his cheeks flushed, his gaze umoving, "I want to hold you so badly that my hands actually _ache_ every time I see you."

Hermione could almost feel the tightness of the clenched fist he still held against the door above her head.

"Because I want to kiss you and touch you and do all manner of inappropriate things. Because I—"

"So do it!" Hermione almost yelled, not knowing whether she wanted to wrap her arms around him or give him a good kick in the shins. "Kiss me," she hissed. "Hold me, touch me – everything! No one's here to see you!" Now she was almost pleading. She leaned forward to close that painfully small gap between them, but the moment she did so, Snape pulled his arm back, pulled his entire body back, and freed her from his shadow.

"No," Snape breathed heavily. His eyes were dark and shining. "As long as you are a student within these walls, Hermione, I will not lay a hand on you."

Hermione didn't have the faintest clue how to respond to that.

It turned out, she didn't need to. Snape, it seemed, was done talking. "Go," he said, turning sharply away from her and walking rigidly back to his desk. "You got what you came for, Granger. I've answered your bloody question and I refuse to say anymore. This discussion is over. Now _get out_!"

Defeated, confused, yet somehow undeniably elated, Hermione did as she was told.

She left.


	22. A Traitor's Redemption

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

It felt as though a dam had been blown. The world as he once knew it, now made very little sense to Severus Snape.

Of course, if someone were to walk into his office at this particular moment, the world would probably make very little sense to them too. First of all, they would be surprised to find that what was normally a very well lit area, was now immersed in total darkness – and anyone who knows anything about potions making knows that it is a very difficult thing to do in the dark; therefore this person might then wonder what Professor Snape was doing alone in his laboratory if he was not mixing potions (they would assume, as Professor Snape does not seem the sort of person who would attempt to mix potions in anything but prime conditions, if he can help it).

The next action this unfortunate person might find himself compelled to perform is to immediately rush to said professor's side in order to check his neck for a pulse, as there could be no other explanation for him to be half-sitting in his chair, half-lying face down on his desk, other than the fact that something truly terrible and detrimental had happened.

It had. But that something, as far as Severus knew, was not affecting his pulse.

That is… it _was_… but not in the life-threatening manner that might require a trip to St. Mungo's. Quite the opposite in fact, his blood was racing through his veins, thundering in his ears, making his heart leap against his chest and his hands tremble and flutter in a useless, infuriating sort of way. It was this behavior that accounted for his unusual position, slumped unmoving over his desktop in the dark. And it was this behavior that Severus Snape deemed as something truly terrible and detrimental.

It was that damned girl. She had done something to him, and he had no idea how to make it stop. A catastrophe in its own right for a man whose reputation and in fact whose very livelihood depended on his superhuman powers of self control. Now he would be impressed if he could simply ease the race of his heart and at least _limit_ the avalanche of naughty and inappropriate thoughts currently crashing through his brain. Anything that would allow him some degree of discipline, anything to make it all give way again to that cold, collected, clever sense of his that had, for so long, kept him alive and coherent.

Breathing. That, he decided, was the most important part of control. That was the thing on which he most needed to concentrate his efforts. Just breathing in and out, slowly and calmly.

It was a tedious struggle, but eventually, bit by painful bit, Severus's pulse began to normalize, and what was once an almost overpowering impulse to run after Granger, pull her into an abandoned classroom, and ravish her within an inch of her life, slowly melted away into a distant, niggling notion in the back of his head.

He was a weak man. A weak, randy, foolish man. And Merlin be damned if he was going to let himself get the better of himself.

* * *

"Come in, Miss Granger. Please, take a seat."

Hermione stepped into Dumbledore's office, shutting the door quietly behind her. She approached the wide, trinket-laden desk at the end of the room, and upon reaching the only available chair, sat down.

She was very nervous.

This was due, partly, to the fact that no one had told her why she had been summoned to see the Headmaster this afternoon. And it was due mostly to the fact that she thought she knew exactly what that reason might be:

He knew. Somehow, some way, through some divine magical influence that only Albus Dumbledore seemed to be able to access, that clever old man had discovered Hermione and Snape's deeply hidden secret, and was now about to punish her accordingly. After all, why else would he pull her out in the middle of Charms? Why else would he pull her out of class unless he was going to – Hermione gulped – expel her.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I apologize for interrupting your studies, Miss Granger. I have long since been acquainted that magnificent dedication of yours to academia, and I am loath to tamper with that bond – however, recently, an interesting piece of information has come to my attention that I feel obligated to address."

"W-what information would that be, sir?" Hermione stammered, her heart feeling as though it were momentarily lodged somewhere beneath her tonsils.

To Hermione's great surprise, confusion, and overwhelming relief, Dumbledore smiled. "It appears," he said softly, "that when sweeping through the Pruitts' cottage, just yesterday, a team of aurors stumbled upon a rather remarkable potion..."

Hermione felt as though her body had leapt twenty feet in the air (though in reality, she had merely sat up rather fast in her chair). Her potion! It wasn't lost after all! What did this mean? Was this what he wanted to talk about? Did Dumbledore not know about Snape after all? Was she not about to be expelled?

As if to answer all of those questions, Dumbledore reached inside his robe pocket and drew out a long, thin vial of golden potion that glowed softly against his wrinkled skin. He set it gently on the table, and Hermione, her hands shaking, picked it up.

Dumbledore gave her an assessing look. "Professor Snape seems to think that you might have some ideas about its origin, Miss Granger."

Her eyes widened. "Yes, Professor. I do."

* * *

Half an hour later, Hermione exited Professor Dumbledore's office with the vial of potion humming warmly in her pocket.

Snape had already told the headmaster what the potion had done – how it had guarded her against _Avada Kedavra_ – but Hermione was the only person who could tell Dumbledore _why _it had manifested the power to do that. Or rather, what she had done to make it manifest that power.

Hermione tried to explain the best she could, but a long time had passed since she had seen her notes (which, Dumbledore explained rather sadly, had been lost to the Death Eater's destruction), and anyway, the whole process had been so long and complicated to begin with; some things she hadn't even bothered to write down at all.

Strangely enough, Dumbledore had not seemed particularly interested in the ingredients or how they were put together. What he appeared to focus most intently upon was the fact that, as far as he knew, the Ministry was intensely interested in what Hermione had made – deliriously beside themselves, was actually how he had put it – and that they would undoubtedly be willing to offer a large sum of money in return for whatever notes she could put together… and, of course, for what remained of the potion itself.

"But I leave the choice with you, Miss Granger," he had said, his eyes piercing, serious, yet still with that glint of inescapable kindness. "From what you have told me, it is obvious that this potion cannot be replicated – not intentionally in any case, nor without a rather convenient and highly improbably twist of fate. If you gave this sample to the Ministry, they would surely put it to use for tests and study, in hopes of replicating it – or mass-producing it, I would imagine. Though how they expect to control the _Largitio _factor, I haven't the foggiest idea. By doing so, perhaps they would be able to learn something, and it would be time well spent. But, just as likely, they might not learn anything at all… and then they would have wasted something very precious.

"As of now, the Ministry has no idea about the particulars of this remarkable discovery of yours, Miss Granger, and they will continue to remain ignorant if you think their experiments are not worth the risk of losing what you already have. If the latter is what you wish – if you wish to save what little is left, then I will comfortably allow you to do so, as I am confident that you will be able to find an equally, if not more, useful application for it." He had smiled at her again. "But, as I said. The choice is up to you."

_What the hell was I supposed to say to that? _Hermione thought furiously as she made her way down a flight of stairs. A group of fifth year Hufflepuffs passed her and waved in greeting, but she didn't pay them any notice.

Yes, it was her discovery, and yes, it was very likely that the Ministry (or anyone else for that matter) would be very interested, but Dumbledore made an excellent point. What if they wasted it?

Voldemort was still lurking somewhere beyond the safe cozy walls of Hogwarts, and it would be an infinite advantage to have this Phoenix-like concoction on their side – especially when the Death Eaters knew nothing about it. Thanks to Frend's selfishness, the existence of Hermione's discovery was yet unknown to Voldemort – but (Hermione was thinking fast, now), if she gave the potion to a team of specialists at the Ministry, how could she be sure that it wouldn't somehow get back to Voldemort? He had spies crawling all over, in who knew how many departments.

Hermione ducked into a bathroom and closed herself inside one of the empty stalls. She wanted to be somewhere private; this was the closest place she could think of. She sat down and pulled out the potion. The heat emanating from it felt pleasant in her hand.

Still… the possibility that a team of specialists could find something useful in it, the possibility that they could find a way to replicate it in order to save lives… wouldn't that be worth the risk?

Hermione heard the door to the bathroom open and a group of giggling girls walked in. She hastily returned the potion to her pocket and was about to exit the stall, when she heard a name mentioned that made her stop quite abruptly in her tracks.

"What really happened to him, do you think?" said one of the girls, quietly. "His hair is all… I mean, hacked right off – like he didn't have it done properly at all. And that bit of white wasn't there before?"

"No," replied a second girl, slowly. "I don't think so. Anyway, I've heard that kind of thing can happen under stress. You know, your hair turning funny colors. Or maybe… maybe he was in really intense pain or something."

"Well," said a third girl, her voice seemingly trapped three octaves higher than her friends. "I don't think it was stress…"

"Maybe," replied the first girl. "Not _that _much, in any case. It must have been pain. Don't you think? I mean, You-Know-Who's not exactly gentle, is he?"

The group fell silent and at least one girl sucked in her breath sharply. Hermione's eyes narrowed.

"Do you think. You figure it might have been… Could Professor Snape have _fought _against You-Know-Who?"

There was another long silence.

"Must have!" the first girl said at last. "You heard what Dumbledore said. All responsibility lies with Vol – with… well, you know…"

The girls paused yet again, so apparently sobered by the thought of their own professor facing down the most dangerous dark wizard in the known world.

"Mary," said one of them at last. Her tone was light, and she sounded intent on changing the rather somber mood. "I know what you're thinking, and I'm just going to say it, alright? I think I should."

"What are you... No — don't!"

With juicy gossip apparently afoot, the girls immediately fell all over themselves pressuring Mary into revealing her secret.

"Come on then!"

"Spill it!"

"What is it?"

"Something about Professor Snape?"

"It is! It is!"

"I… It's…"

"Ooooh," exclaimed the girl with the high voice. "Look at her, she's all red! What do you think of Professor Snape, Mary, _eh_?"

"Yes! Go on then – you'd like to see what's beneath those robes, _EH_?"

"I, _stop it_!_ Really, _I mean, _please_ alright? This is _embarrassing_!"

High-pitched girl let out a squeal of delight. "She does! She does!"

The bathroom positively rang with shrieks of laughter.

Hermione's mouth hung open.

"Stop it!" Mary exclaimed defensively over the squeals. "Tansy was saying just yesterday that she thought he looked—"

"Well, yes, I suppose, with all that greasy hair out of the way, he doesn't look quite so repulsive…"

"I never knew he had such a strong jaw!"

The girls erupted into giggles again and Hermione felt her body temperature rise to an absurdly high degree. She grit her teeth.

Those stupid girls. They didn't know what they were talking about. They liked to think him handsome now that his appearance had changed and they could weave such fantasies for themselves of his daring and bravery. She, Hermione, was the one who had seen him first for who he truly was. No one else, not these girls, only her. He was _hers _to cherish and believe in. Funny that it came to her that way, but it did. She felt possessive. She didn't like it.

Two minutes later the conversation deteriorated back into un-Snape-related gossip. The girls finished washing their hands and touching up their make-up, and soon Hermione was left alone in the bathroom once again, seething with jealousy.

And feeling absolutely pathetic for it.

* * *

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Putting aside for a moment the rather dramatic conclusion to our most recent conversation, my only motivation in writing you this letter is with specific regards to the continuation of my private tutelage in Potions. I understand and respect the concerns that you previously expressed to me on this subject, so, in light of that, I was rather hoping you might allow for my training to be conducted through owls instead. Even though I find a strictly letter-based relationship exceedingly disappointing, I am also willing to admit that written interaction is better than no interaction at all. Please take a moment to consider my proposal before dismissing it outright, Professor, and perhaps think about doing this, if not for my emotional benefit, then at least for my intellectual one._

_I still have not given up on a career in Potions, and there is no doubt in my mind that you are the best person to help me attain my goal._

_Anxiously awaiting your reply,_

_Hermione_

Hermione's quill hovered over the parchment for a very long time before, with a defeated sigh, she tacked on a hasty _Granger_. She felt assured that any extra effort she made towards formality would greatly improve her chances with Snape. If distance was what he wanted, then distance was what he was going to get… For a little while, anyway.

* * *

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_If you are able to acquire the proper permission from the headmaster in order to support this rather unorthodox proposition (and do your absolute damndest to refrain from any more embarrassing outbursts in my classroom) then I might be willing to consider this potentially problematic idea of yours._

_Things for you to consider:_

_1. Effective instruction requires personal observation of the student while working. That seems largely impossible while under the circumstances you are suggesting._

_2. Workspace: Unless you have failed to notice, Miss Granger, I spend quite a lot of time in my laboratory, and I refuse to sacrifice any of those valuable hours on your account. Where do you intend to conduct your experiments?_

_3. The end of the year is fast approaching, and with it will inevitably follow more homework and exams than even you could possibly imagine. I expect only the best from my pupils, and meeting that expectation requires just as much, if not more, studying than any one of your regularly scheduled classes. I merely want you to answer honestly when I ask if you will be able to keep up with the extensive reading and laboratory hours this commitment would entail._

_As you understand and respect my choices, I too understand and respect your desire to pursue Potions, Miss Granger. I do not fault you for attempting to overcome the obstacles I have so selfishly placed in your way. But, as you can see, there are more than a few holes in this plan of yours that need filling before it can even begin to become a reality._

_Regards,_

_S.S._

This was in no way an ideal situation she had placed him in, Severus seethed as he finished up the letter and folded it deftly. However, he found himself hard put to deny her anything when she spoke with such conviction. The maturity of her letter had surprised and pleased him. After all, just because he couldn't stand to be alone in a room with her without wanting to run his hands over every inch of her body, nose his way between those warm thighs… did not mean that her future as a Potions Mistress should suffer as a result.

And in any case, he was marginally sure that the problems he had pointed out would keep her occupied at least long enough for him to figure out how to get himself under control (honestly, he was beginning to act like some manner of hormonally challenged teenager. Most distressing).

To his great surprise and vexation, Granger's reply was almost immediate:

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_I have already taken the liberty of speaking to Professor Dumbledore about this idea, and though he expressed puzzlement over the complications that inspired it, he gave us his unwavering consent, urging us to use whatever methods we deemed necessary._

_My answers to your thoughtful considerations:_

_1. The Pensieve, sir. I will bottle my memories from each work session, send them to you by owl, and then you may observe them at your leisure. With the understanding, of course, that my memories will be returned to me – hopefully intact, and hopefully with your written criticisms attached._

_2. I have a very special Room in mind that I'm sure will meet both of our Requirements._

_3. You wanted honesty, and this is my honest response, Professor: Bring it on._

_Eternally grateful,_

_Hermione Granger_

_Fine_, Severus thought as he tried to suppress the small tickle of pride and admiration now welling up inside him. He flipped the parchment over to scrawl a grudging confirmation on the back of it. She obviously wanted a challenge, and it just so happened that a challenge was exactly what he was prepared to give her.

Severus folded his reply and tied it to the leg of the owl currently nibbling on the remains of his salad. Then he watched it fly away, with the beginnings of a smirk tugging at his lips.

_As you wish, Miss Granger._

* * *

Hermione stared at the back of her letter and fought with all her might to keep her uncontrollable grin under control.

_We will begin on Tuesday next. Be prepared, be discreet, and don't, under any circumstances, make me regret this._

S.S.

Hermione quickly shoveled down the rest of her dinner, made a rather unintelligible gesture to Harry that meant she would see him later (Ron was still not speaking to her), and power-walked as fast as she could back to her dorm. She couldn't wait to get started – she had so much to do! There was a mountain of reading to get through, sheets and sheets of parchment just waiting to be filled, and most important of all, she needed to decide which project she wanted to start on first (so many choices!).

As Hermione slammed her door closed behind her and threw herself onto her bed, smiling so wide that her face actually ached, she couldn't help but think that at least one thing was for certain: school was about to get a lot more interesting.

* * *

Severus watched across the Great Hall as joy positively ignited across the girl's face when she read his response. He hated himself for the slight swooping sensation in his stomach that followed.

Was he making a mistake? They were being cautious, no denying that. Even he had to admit that Granger had more than answered the problems he had proposed. Still… there was something about the whole ordeal that made Severus nervous. And Severus did not like to be nervous.

* * *

Hermione pursed her lips moodily.

She hadn't meant for this to happen. Honestly, she hadn't planned to spill her entire potions kit on the floor, forcing her to remain long after the bell in order to clean the whole mess. She hadn't set this up on purpose – being alone in the room with Snape (she would never do anything to endanger her tutelage so close on the heels of her hard won victory), but it just sort of… happened.

"Granger."

Hermione looked up at her professor, startled. He beckoned to her from behind his desk, stoically. She hated it when she could glean nothing from his blank expression.

"Come here."

Leaving her mess just as it was, seeping through the cracks in the stone floor, Hermione did what she was told. As she approached the desk, Snape did not look at her, instead focusing his gaze on the partially graded papers in front of him. Before she could ask what it was that he wanted, Snape reached into a drawer, drew out a small cloth, and tossed it to her (all without looking up).

"Here," he said dryly. "You seem to have acquired something vile and orange on your blouse."

Hermione looked down, grimacing. A rapidly spreading, bright orange spot had blossomed on the white knit of her shirt. _Perfect_, she thought irritably. The rag did very little to help the matter, but she dabbed it against the wet spot a few times anyway, resolved to give it a good _Scourgify _the moment she got back to her desk.

"Was that all you needed from me, Professor?"

Snape grunted an affirmative, "Mh."

But, just as Hermione was walking away, Snape called her back.

"Hold on a moment, Miss Granger. I just realized – there is something else you may do for me."

Hermione returned obediently to her previous position in front of him.

"Yes?" she prompted.

Snape's eyes narrowed, though otherwise his expression remained stoic and unreadable. "Well, you certainly won't be able to do anything properly from there," he drawled. "Walk around."

Snape indicated that she should come and stand directly beside his chair. Though this puzzled Hermione exceedingly, once again, she did as he asked without question.

The moment she neared him, Snape stood, towering over her with such magnetic force and power that Hermione felt the muscles in her legs give, ever so slightly. There was something different about him today – something wild and seductive that made her want to bury her fingers in his hair and kiss the hell out of him. It was pathetic beyond measure, but just a glimpse of that jaw and those eyes, those lips so long thought to be cruel and hard yet recently discovered to be soft and warm, made her shiver with desire.

As though sensing her thoughts (and perhaps he _was _employing a bit of his famous skills in Legillimency), Snape's breath began to quicken; Hermione could almost feel his body temperature rising.

Hermione cleared her throat. "Yes?" she asked quietly. "What was it that you wanted me to do?"

It happened so fast, she barely had time to register it. All of a sudden, Snape's broad palms enveloped her shoulders, tight and demanding, sending ribbons of delight all through her body. Then he was leaning down so close, so near, that she could feel her hair flutter against her neck as he whispered, dark and husky, into her ear:

"I want you… to take your clothes off for me."

A thrill, like a bolt of lightning, ran the length of Hermione's spine and she was momentarily out of breath, out of words, out of anything but a deep, blazing fire that smoldered like lava in her gut (and perhaps a bit south of there as well).

"I…" she started dryly, without the faintest clue of how she intended to finish the sentence.

But it didn't matter, because in that moment of hesitation, Snape drew away, hissing something angry and inaudible. Then, without warning, without any sort of purpose or provocation at all, Snape reached out and slapped her full across the face.

Hermione sat up with a gasp, her hand instantly flying to her cheek where she was sure that less than half a moment ago, Snape's palm had struck her.

But it was not so.

She rubbed groggily at her eyes as her strange, moonlight-washed surroundings swam into view. She was in the library. And no, she realized, it was not because she had been studying late. It was because she was sleepwalking. Again. This was not a particularly thrilling revelation.

With a deep, guttural sigh, Hermione picked herself up off the floor (she had been wedged in between the wall and a row of books that appeared to be dedicated to various forms of magical disguise) and exited the library as quietly as she could. It was lonely and dark as usual in the hall, and the air had a very eerie, a little too quiet sort of quality to it. Just because she thought it might be worth a try, Hermione checked her sleeves for her wand. Unsurprisingly, she was met with only empty fabric.

She moved quickly through the castle, trying not to think about what had just happened in her dream – how that bolt of pleasure had ripped through her at the idea of (she felt her face grow hot) _stripping _for her professor, and how the sting from his slap still seemed to linger on her cheek long after she had woken.

Hermione gave a startled jump as she heard a door open and close just twenty feet or so down the hall. Someone was here! She prayed it wasn't Filch. Even though she was Head Girl, and more or less allowed to be out of her bed after curfew, the headmaster had been very adamant about students staying in bed after dark (what with Voldemort upping the offensive), and Filch would be only too pleased to turn her in for breaking even the slightest hint of what may or may not be a rule.

The footsteps were growing nearer – did she have time to escape? No, too late, she was caught. She would just have to face whoever it was. The approaching figure (with wand drawn) soon entered a shaft of moonlight streaming through one of the windows, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief when she saw who it was.

That relief did not last very long, however, because the moment Professor McGonagall saw Hermione, her demeanor turned very stern indeed.

"Miss Granger!" she announced shrilly, pocketing her wand and closing the distance between them in three quick strides. "What are you doing out of bed at this time of night?" Her tone was slightly higher than normal, the usual terseness transcending into that tightly-strung-worried-mother-I've-been-trying-to- call-you-for-hours tone that every child knows spells trouble.

"I'm sorry, Professor," Hermione said quickly. "I was just… you see I…" _Should I tell her?_ Hermione thought. _Yes. Might as well_. "I was sleepwalking. I don't know why, but it's sort of been a growing problem over the past few months. I've tried to stop it – and I really thought it had gone away. But apparently…" Hermione trailed off, thinking that it was probably best not to mention what she believed to be the cause of these nightly escapades (her dreams). Yes, perhaps it was best just to leave it at that, Hermione decided, as understanding began to dawn on McGonagall's face.

"Oh, yes…" McGonagall said quietly. "Yes, I remember Poppy mentioning something about that before the night you… Hm, in any case, Miss Granger," her demeanor turned stern again, "I want you to march right back up to your dorm, put yourself to bed, and stay there. Tie yourself to the bedpost if you must, but I will not have you roaming the halls unconscious and vulnerable in the wee hours of the morning. Heaven's, if we haven't got enough on our plate with Potter trying to sneak off and avenge his Godfather every chance he gets – it would hardly do for you to go missing again, Miss Granger. I shudder to think what Potter would do if… if you were…" She shook her head. "Bed." She pointed down the hall. "Now. And stay there."

Hermione nodded grimly. "Yes, Professor."

* * *

McGonagall had been right about Harry. Ever since Sirius's death, and Hermione's slow, grudging acceptance of it, Harry's determination to defeat Voldemort had flourished into a full-out obsession. Every morning he scoured any paper he could find for updates on the Death Eater Frend and what the Ministry had managed to learn from him (though the news remained suspiciously bare of any mention of the "missing M.A.R official"). He questioned Hermione, almost every hour it seemed, about the minutest details of her encounters with the Death Eaters: Where had they come from? How many of them were there? Who were they? What did they want? Were they looking for something in particular?

When he wasn't doing that, he was studying the Marauder's Map, planning his escape route if ever the opportunity arose to "go." He was always talking about "going," as though they (Hermione and Ron) didn't know exactly what he meant – as though they didn't know he would be running head-long into the most desperate fight for his life. They told him it was stupid, to go behind Dumbledore's back, to endanger himself so recklessly. But Harry was relentless. He kept planning, and he kept asking questions. Whenever he was with Ron, he would go over and over their battle with Voldemort in Hogsmeade, looking for weaknesses – looking for something, anything, that might hint at the possibility of Voldemort's downfall.

Every time they started into that, Hermione promptly left the room. She had yet to know the full story of Hogsmeade, and in all honesty, she would rather it stayed that way. Battle did not interest her. She loathed battle – everything to do with it. The pointlessness, the mindless killing, the ruthless end of so many lives. It sickened her.

But as much as those thoughts turned Hermione away from Voldemort, all they seemed to do for Harry, was spur him on. There was no question: He was more determined now than ever that the time had come for this thing to end, once and for all. All he needed was a chance to prove himself. And later that evening, that very chance would come along.

But, first, it was Potions again, and for once in a long time, Hermione was mildly dreading it. All she could think about was her dream from the previous night. Snape's voice in her ear. She couldn't help replaying it over and over again in her head. _I want you… to take your clothes off for me._

At the moment, Snape was standing at the head of the class, explaining some long-winded and complicated technique that Hermione had already mastered at least two years ago. She wasn't hearing his words, simply concentrating on his voice. The deep timbre, the pleasing cadence.

It was idiotic of course, hopeless and swoony beyond anything Hermione could ever remember feeling since Lockhart (oh, how that silly crush still haunted her), but these days, it seemed to be growing more and more difficult for her to control her own body's impulses.

Snape finished speaking and with a sweep of his arm, announced that everyone should begin working.

As Hermione read carefully through the list of ingredients on the board, double-checking to make sure she had properly shredded her Centaurea petals, she slipped her hand inside her pocket and fingered the vial of golden potion – or, Phoenix Potion, as she had so creatively decided to call it. She carried it around with her everywhere now, nervous to leave it any place she couldn't keep an eye on it.

After all, she still had that decision to make – one which hadn't become any easier since Dumbledore first proposed it. She supposed she could ask her friends, but for some reason Hermione felt as though this was a decision she needed to make on her own.

There was something else about the potion, as well; every time Snape walked near her (while perusing his students' progress), the vial's dull hum would escalate to such a strong, pulsing buzz, that Hermione could feel it even through the thick, layered cloth of her robes. _Interesting_, she thought, eyeing Snape's back as he passed her table for the third time in the past hour and the muted vibrations in her pocket slowly died away again.

As though sensing her gaze, Snape looked over his shoulder, catching her eyes. "May I help you, Miss Granger?" he asked, smooth as silk.

Hermione merely shook her head, blushed hotly, and then went back to work.

_I want you… to take your clothes off for me._

Damn it all to hell if that man wasn't going to be the end of her.

* * *

It was evening. Harry, Hermione and Ron had just finished dinner and were walking back to their dorm room, talking quietly. Ron had yet to officially "forgive" Hermione for all the things she had "done" to him, but through their mutual worry over Harry's single-minded obsession, their relationship had mended a few of its broken ties.

"Can't be far off..." Harry seethed, muttering to himself as they made their way around a group of fourth year Ravenclaws. "…can't play coward… hate how... sneaking around... _arrogant bastards_ like Frend… bloody coward…"

Hermione glanced at Ron and they shared a look. Harry was thinking about Sirius again, they could always tell. Harry's tone would darken, his teeth would clench, and his hate-filled words would circle relentlessly around the whereabouts of Voldemort and his followers.

"Harry," Hermione said softly, adopting a trepid tone of comfort she had become particularly adept at in the past week. "I'm sure that if anyone knew anything about Vol… You-Know-Who — they would tell you straight away."

Harry's green eyes narrowed behind his glasses as they began to climb a flight of stairs. "Would they?" he asked darkly. "Do you really think so, Hermione? Because I don't. The only reason Ron and I were even there at Hogsmeade was because we knew about the Portkey — and the only reason we knew about the Portkey was because we've been spying on the teachers."

"Yeah," Ron admitted grudgingly. "They want to keep us out of trouble, I guess. But, honestly, mate," he put on a very forced smile, "when the time comes for us to do something – I think we'll know. When V-Voldemort shows his ugly face, it's not going to be quiet. We'll find out about it. And we'll be there to fight him." Ron glanced uncertainly at Hermione. "All three of us."

Harry stopped walking, catching Ron and Hermione off guard. They stopped two steps later, turning to look down into Harry's fierce, stubborn face.

"But why?" he said angrily. "I mean I know _why, _but what I mean is _why_ don't you listen to me when I tell you that_I'm _the one who Voldemort really wants and—"

"No." Hermione did not raise her voice, but she did not need to. There was conviction enough to silence him. "No, Harry," she said again. "You are not doing this alone, and you bloody well know it. We have stood by you for six years – almost seven, now. We have always followed you, always believed in you, always been there to support each other. We deserve the right to fight beside you this final time."

Ron didn't say anything, though he was nodding enthusiastically in agreement.

The fierceness faded slightly from Harry's expression. "Yeah," he admitted softly. "When you put it that way, I can't deny that you've earned the right – this is your fight too, I guess. But you've got to promise me something…"

They both gave Harry their undivided attention.

"Ginny can't. I swear it – I don't want her there."

"But, Harry, she's not going to—"

"Stay quietly – yes, I know. But you have to make her. You understand what I'm saying? We will be fighting for our lives – I'm going to be up against… against _him_. I need all the concentration I can get. I'll be distracted enough already just worrying about the two of you. It would be too much… knowing she was out there – fighting, or whatever – and I couldn't... Voldemort is going to take all of my focus. I don't know yet how I'm going to do it, but I swear to you, I will do it. I'll end it."

Hermione walked down the two steps between them and put her hand lightly on Harry's shoulder. "I believe it, Harry. I truly—" Hermione screamed as something sharp, large and feathery crashed into the wall beside them and fell screeching to the floor.

"Errol!" Ron nearly toppled off the stairs in his haste to assist the stricken bird. "You shouldn't be flying. Who sent you?"

"He's got a letter," said Harry anxiously, helping Ron lift Errol and remove the roll of parchment from his trembling leg.

Hermione hung back slightly, wringing her hands and watching with wide eyes.

Harry finally freed the letter and unrolled it as Ron tried to sort out the old owl – who was wheezing heavily and looking around in a dazed shock as though unsure of which way was which. When Errol did not immediately right himself, Ron got impatient and promptly shoved the bird into Hermione's arms, leaving himself free to circle around Harry and read over his shoulder.

Hermione spluttered as Errol, giving a disgruntled flutter, caught her full in the face with his wing. Seconds later he was comfortably settled in the crook of her arm, and Hermione looked at Harry, who spoke.

"It's from your dad, Ron… But it's for me…"

"Read it," Hermione prompted, burning with curiosity.

"Harry," Harry began, "I hope this gets to you. Strictly speaking, Errol should not be making deliveries any more, but there isn't an owl left here at the Ministry to use. Something has happened, and Turnus Frend is dead."

Hermione sucked in her breath as Ron's jaw dropped.

Harry's hands tightened on the parchment, but he continued. "They discovered him late this afternoon, and everyone is in an uproar trying to find out how it was done. We believe there might have been a spy among Frend's guards who slipped him the poison. That's how he did it, by the way. He took his own life, rather than betray You-Know-Who. And this is the bad news, Harry, he was never interrogated. Fudge kept putting it off, unwilling, I suppose, to face the truth. But he waited too long, and Frend's secrets died with him — DAMN IT!"

Harry slammed his fist against the wall, causing the two small boys in a nearby painting (who had been eavesdropping intently on their conversation) to shriek and flee behind an old woman's skirts, three floors up.

"I _hate _Fudge, that _stupid_ bastard!"

Ron reached over and eased the parchment out of Harry's clenched fist. "There's more, hang on. I'll read it."

Harry gave Ron a furious glare, but did not resist.

"I know this is upsetting news," Ron continued from his father's letter. "But we are not entirely without hope. Travers is at still recovering at St. Mungo's – in bad condition, but he will live. I have spoken to his doctors, and though Travers has not yet been lucid enough for interrogation, they are optimistic that he will be ready soon. The security on him right now is unbelievable. In any case, perhaps this fiasco has taught the Minister that putting off a bad thing only makes that bad thing worse. Maybe he won't wait as long before talking to Travers."

"_Idiot_," growled Harry.

Ron kept reading. "I know I don't have to ask you to share this information with Ron and Hermione, because I assume you will do so. Honestly, Harry, you were the first person I thought to contact. Molly may kill me, but you deserve to know." At this, Ron began to look a bit peeved that his own father had initially written to his friend instead of to him. He said nothing about it, however, and instead unrolled the last bit of parchment.

"Oh, there's a little more — P.S. There will be a meeting soon. Where I don't know, nor would I dare disclose it in a letter. But I think the three of you should be there. Again, Molly will probably have my head for this, but go to Dumbledore. Ask him if you can come, and don't take no for an answer." Ron looked up at Hermione and Harry. "An Order meeting? Is he serious? He _wants _us to be there?"

"Why shouldn't he?" quipped Harry.

"That was a dangerous thing to put in a letter," Hermione replied quietly. "Did he say anything else?"

Ron looked down. "Oh yeah… he says, Please, Harry, whatever you do, don't make me regret this by doing something rash. I'm trusting you. Don't leave the grounds unless you are with Dumbledore. These are dark and unstable times, so you've got to be extra careful. Stay smart, stay safe. Arthur Weasley."

There was a brief silence in which the three of them looked at each other. Then Harry snatched the letter out of Ron's hand, shouldered his bag, turned around, and proceeded to march quickly down the stairs. "Come on," he called over his shoulder. "Let's go."

"What?"

"Go where?"

Hermione and Ron stumbled after him – Hermione more slowly than Ron, because she still had an armful of disgruntled owl to deal with. "Harry!" she called anxiously, struggling to keep her book bag from slipping off her shoulder and not drop Errol at the same time. "Where are we going?"

Harry stopped just long enough to turn slightly and give her a stern look. "To Dumbledore," he said simply, and then he was off again.

* * *

The confrontation with Dumbledore was surprisingly short, but what it lacked in length, it more than made up for in intensity.

McGonagall, Hagrid, Flitwick, and Snape were already gathered in Dumbledore's circular office when Harry barged in (followed closely by Ron and hesitantly by Hermione, Errol still tucked tightly against her chest).

"Potter, Weasley, what are you doing?" Snape snarled when he saw them. He and Dumbledore stood in front of the wide desk at the center of the room, while the rest of the staff members crowded closely around. It appeared as though they had all been discussing something Snape was holding in his hand (a letter by the looks of it), but the moment they entered, Snape quickly hid it from view. His mouth twitched slightly when he saw Hermione. "Granger, too? I should have guessed."

"Severus," Dumbledore soothed quietly, motioning the three of them forward with a wave of his hand.

Hagrid ambled over a few steps so they could squeeze by, his black eyes looking anxious and curious beneath his bushy eyebrows.

Once told, Dumbledore was not surprised by Mr. Weasley's letter – obviously news of Frend's demise had already reached the castle (after all, there could hardly be any other reason for such a meeting of Order members to be taking place). He gave a significant pause, however, over Mr. Weasley's final suggestion that Harry, Ron and Hermione should be present at the next official Order meeting. The moment he read it – out loud so the rest of the room's occupants could hear – there was an explosion of outrage.

"You can't be serious, Dumbledore—"

"Surely Arthur didn't mean—"

"Far too dangerous to—"

"They aren't even _members_ of the Order!"

Snape was the last to be heard before Dumbledore silenced them with an impatient gesture. "Perhaps Arthur has a point – after all, Harry has a right to know what he's up against," he said simply, looking grim, all traces of a twinkle gone from his eyes.

"Yes, Headmaster, but why not simply relay the information?" argued Flitwick, with an apologetic glance at Harry. "I'm sorry, Potter, but what reason is there for you – for any of you – to put yourselves at more risk by leaving Hogwarts?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "You speak of risk, Filius, but we have not decided yet where the next meeting will take place. Why not here, at Hogwarts? "

"You know certainly well _why not _Hogwarts," said McGonagall shrilly. "If all of our members suddenly showed up at the gates one night... Surely You-Know-Who is watching us closely. Everyone's identities would be immediately debunked."

Dumbledore's expression was stern. "I am not saying that we should not be mindful of possible surveillance, Minerva. As you well know, there are plenty of other ways into this castle yet unheard of by Voldemort and his followers. And Portkey is not entirely out of the question."

"Besides, we don't have to meet here," suggested Harry aggressively. "We don't care about leaving the grounds – we can be careful. All I want to make clear is that we – Ron, Hermione and I – are sick of exclusion. We deserve better. We want to take part."

Ron stepped forward. "Yeah. _And _we want to be inducted. We want to be official members of the Order."

That, as it soon turned out, was the crux of the matter. Safety was merely a hurdle to be jumped; it was the secrecy involved that, deep down, seemed to be ruffling everyone's feathers (Snape's in particular). Harry, Hermione and Ron were not part of the group – they were not official members, and therefore, according to the rules, should not be part of the official meetings.

The outrage against Ron's suggestion was even more explosive and furious that the last. But the three of them stood their ground. As, surprisingly, did Dumbledore.

The negotiations that followed were not altogether pleasant. Quite a few nasty things were said (mostly by Snape, and always without looking in Hermione's direction). However, they did eventually manage to funnel their argument into a decision — an outcome that did not seem to sit well with anyone but Hagrid, who was safely satisfied with anything Dumbledore decided as the correct course of action. The Gamekeeper's rumbling voice could be heard echoing every so often from the back, supporting Dumbledore's recent argument, or simply telling Snape to "shut it."

So, despite all odds, it was eventually decided that Harry, Ron and Hermione were to be inducted into the Order. The only condition being that their induction would have to wait. The official meeting itself was not even set to happen for at least two weeks in order to avoid suspicion – as every Ministry employee was being closely monitored, and members of the Order dared not stir or risk a mysterious disappearance.

"We will talk more on that later," Dumbledore continued, when everyone had at last fallen silent, and the conclusion had more or less been grudgingly accepted by all. "Meanwhile, there is a matter of more pressing importance that needs to be discussed. Severus, if you wouldn't mind…" Dumbledore held his hand out towards the Potions Master, who, hesitating slightly and scowling heavily, handed over whatever it was he had been concealing in his robes.

Dumbledore picked it up and opened it, revealing that it was, indeed, a letter. "As I was saying before you three arrived," he looked at Harry, Ron, and Hermione in turn, "it appears that there is a great deal more to the death of Turnus Frend than we initially thought."

"He was murdered, wasn't he?"

Everyone in the room turned sharply in Hermione's direction, some with mouths slightly ajar. But Hermione kept her eyes on Dumbledore, her arms tight around Errol, who hooted softly.

Even Dumbledore was thrown enough out of sorts to raise his eyebrows. "Yes, Miss Granger. He was. Might I ask how you came by that knowledge?"

Hermione was prompt in her response. "Frend was a proud man, Professor. Selfish, proud, and evil, and whose only interest lay in his own gain and his own survival. When Harry first read us the letter, I was too shocked to really think on how it appeared to have happened. However, since then, I've come to realize that Frend is the last man on earth who would kill himself for another's cause. Therefore, he must have died against his will. Someone – a Death Eater, I assume – murdered him before he could talk."

Dumbledore nodded gravely. "That is exactly right, Miss Granger. A Death Eater murdered Turnus Frend. And that man…" he said, holding up the letter in his hand, "wishes to speak to Severus."

Hermione's eyes flew to Snape. He was not looking at her, but his frown and the fierce anger in his eyes confirmed what Dumbledore was saying.

"Wh-why?" asked Hermione dryly.

McGonagall answered. "It doesn't matter why, Headmaster. He shouldn't go – he simply _shouldn't_."

"Funny, I would think that was _my _decision, Minerva," Snape hissed. "The letter is addressed Severus Snape and nowhere within the text does it invite the addled opinions of nosy old women. If this fool wants to meet me and—"

"MEET you?" Hermione blurted before she could stop herself, startling Errol who screeched in surprise.

"Here. Give 'im to me," muttered Hagrid, holding out his arms and accepting the feeble old owl like a newborn baby.

"Yes, Miss Granger," Snape growled at Hermione through gritted teeth. "He wants to meet me. Which, as I have been saying, is not the issue we should be-"

"Now, see here, Severus!" Flitwick had clambered onto an armchair in order to put himself on eye-level with the rest of the group. "This man is openly admitting to murder – not to mention being a Death Eater as well. How could you possibly think that it would be safe to—"

"I didn't say it would be safe," Snape was getting angry again. "It won't be safe at all, not by a long shot – but it's _necessary_."

Dumbledore laid a hand upon Snape's shoulder, and it was a testament to how deep their relationship ran that Snape did not immediately shake him off. "It isn't necessary, Severus," he said, rather sadly Hermione thought. "You want to be helpful — that is admirable. But you don't need to put yourself further into harm's way. If this man has information, he can come to all of us, or none at all. You shouldn't have to face him alone."

"You are not a fool but you refuse to understand," Snape replied darkly, finally dipping his shoulder so that Dumbledore's hand slid off.

"What do I not understand?"

Snape's face was all harsh lines and shadows. "The man. You don't understand him – how his mind works, what he wants."

"Alright, will someone please explain what's going on?" Harry finally said, verbalizing what Hermione and Ron had equally been wondering. "Why does Sn – Professor Snape – have to meet this - whoever this is?"

"The man who wrote this letter," Snape snapped impatiently, "extracted information from Frend before murdering him. Now he's holding that information hostage unless I meet him somewhere and personally retrieve it. He claims that he will only trust me."

"Why?" pursued Ron. "I mean, if he's a Death Eater and all that, why is he giving _us _information?"

"Because he doesn't want to be a Death Eater any longer," Snape replied promptly.

"Or so he says," Flitwick muttered. "Doesn't anyone else besides me smell a trap?"

"Of course we do!" McGonagall was staring incredulously at Dumbledore. "Surely you don't think this man is telling the truth, Headmaster. We can't let Severus—"

"Severus," Dumbledore interrupted, "will, I'm sure, do whatever he thinks is best, regardless of what we _let _him do. Because he is right on one account: We do not know this man. Severus, to some extent, does. He knows what it is like to turn from Voldemort's side – and is living proof that such things do happen." Dumbledore looked at Snape. "If you believe this man is telling the truth, that he wants to trust his anonymity to you, Severus, then…" He gave a deep sigh. "I will give you whatever protection I have to offer, when you go to meet him."

Hermione cleared her throat. "Excuse me, Professor Snape." Snape looked sharply in her direction. "May I ask… why this person wants to meet you – specifically?"

There was only bitterness in Snape's voice when he replied. "Because I am the only one who has turned from our _master_. Because I am the only one who has deserted, turned sides. I suppose he finds somewhat of a kindred spirit in me." Snape's eyes narrowed. "But, I say again, that doesn't matter, Granger. It doesn't matter who he's asking for, as long as he has information that we require, send the bloody Toothfairy, it doesn't matter. If I am the only one who can negotiate this, then I will do so. The Dark Lord will never fall if we continue to let such valuable resources slip through our fingers. I for one am tired of eluding victory. If the idiot wants to talk to me, then so be it."

"So be it," Hermione echoed quietly, feeling her heart seize in her chest as she swayed slightly where she stood.

"You're going, then?" Harry said, looking at Snape for the first time with a touch of something Hermione could not quite place. It wasn't admiration or respect by any means... It wasn't hatred either.

"Yes." Snape replied with a nod. Then he looked at Dumbledore, who nodded back. "Yes," Snape said again. But this time he looked straight at Hermione.

Hermione looked at him right back, and for the briefest flicker of a moment, the fear that she felt inside herself, the fear she felt at any time would open up its wide jaws and swallow her whole, seemed to reflect faintly in Snape's face.

They shared a look of deepest understanding, and just like she had learned to do at Pruitt Cottage – to read what was really meant beneath Snape's words – when Snape said for all to hear, "I am going to meet with this man," she knew without a doubt, as though he were screaming it in her head, that what he had really meant was, "I am going to meet with this man because I have failed the Order, and because I want to protect who I can. Especially you. I wish to protect you, Hermione."

Safe in her pocket, the warm vial of Phoenix Potion shuddered violently.


	23. Letters, Potions, and a Pretty Red Dress

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

A spell whizzed inches from Severus's nose and momentarily bathed his face in heat. There should have been screams all around, he found himself thinking. After all, that was normally what accompanied a battle. Yet, aside from the occasional explosion or passing curse, the air seemed strangely quiet.

Severus was currently crouched behind a large, marble headstone, everything around him shrouded by a thick blanket of mist. The grass was dewy and wet beneath his hands. His empty hands. Where was his wand?

Severus searched the ground frantically, felt every pocket of his robes, checked his sleeves, checked his trousers, even his socks. The slim ebony rod was nowhere to be found.

Another curse hit the ground near Severus's foot and exploded in a shower of dirt and small rocks.

He scrunched himself even tighter against the back of the headstone, knowing he was done for. He had lost his only weapon and his enemy was closing in. Could he make a run for it?

Severus took a quick, wary survey of his surroundings. He was in a graveyard – that much was apparent. But beyond this initial realization, he could tell very little, as the mist was far too thick. He could be right at the edge of the cemetery or smack in the middle, he hadn't the faintest idea. Even if he did decide to flee, there was a very distinct possibility that he might run _toward _his attacker and never know the difference until it was too late.

Severus sat up sharply. What was that?

Something, a shadow, moved behind the fuzzy outline of a headstone thirty feet away.

Again! It moved quickly behind the next one – creeping closer.

Severus bit back a yell as a burning curse ripped over the curved stone he was leaning against and found his exposed left shoulder. Pain blossomed through his body, tears sprang to his eyes, but he did not take his gaze away from the thing that approached. Because even though this thing was not his attacker (the spells were not coming from its direction), that did not necessarily mean it was friendly.

The shadow moved again. This time Severus gathered a brief impression of its outline. A human – a girl. His lungs emptied when he realized that he recognized that silhouette. Those little hands, that mess of hair, that distinct way of moving that only Hermione Granger seemed capable of possessing.

"What the hell are you doing here!" he hissed angrily as Granger took one last dive and rolled sweaty and panting up against him behind the headstone.

"Helping you, idiot." Granger smiled at him weakly.

There came a loud, high-pitched whistling, and then something cratered the earth just inches from Granger's elbow.

"Watch it!" Severus leaned over her body to snatch up her arm, rolling her tight against him so as to protect them both behind the small shelter.

She struggled to free herself. "No," she mumbled. "No, no. Listen, I know how to save you!" She pulled back and looked up into Severus's face, still smiling. "I know how to save you! Here."

Severus watched, dumbfounded, as Granger unbuttoned her jacket, reached into the inside breast pocket and drew out a small, gold, glowing… something.

She held it out to him. "Take it," she said.

"You'll die," Severus heard himself reply, and a part of him wondered wildly how he knew that.

"Yes." She nodded, her smile faltering, but not entirely disappearing. "Take it."

"No."

"Go on – take it."

Another explosion nearby showered them with dirt and pebbles.

"No," he said again, wide-eyed. "You'll die."

"Yes. For you it's worth it. Take it."

"I…"

Severus faltered, and in that moment, Granger picked up his hand and pressed the glowing something into his palm. She closed his fingers around it. "You need this more than I do," she said softly.

Then Granger pulled back, still smiling at him, still holding his hand. There came a loud scream, an enormous flash of green light, and quite suddenly the girl was dead. She lay on the ground, vacant eyes staring up into his, her body cold and stiff against his side.

A shadow fell over them, and Severus heard someone speak.

"Found you," it growled.

The tip of a wand pressed painfully into the back of Severus's neck. He opened his mouth to say something (what he wasn't sure), but before he could utter a word, the voice hissed, "_Avada Kedavra,_" and then it was over.

Severus woke with a start, the image of Granger's lifeless corpse still swimming before his eyes.

It was dark and quiet all around, except for a slight breeze that turned the sweat on the back of his neck ice cold.

Severus blinked the sleep out of his eyes, squinting against the chilly air. The moment his vision cleared he gave a yelp of surprise, leaping backwards and catching his foot on his other foot which sent him crashing spectacularly to the ground.

He had been standing on the very edge of the Astronomy tower balcony, leaning out over an enormous expanse of open air. His heart thudded so hard against his chest, Severus thought it a wonder he didn't die right there on the spot. But a few seconds passed without further incident, and his pulse at last began to slow.

Severus shook his head dazedly. This was getting dangerously out of control. Sleepwalking around his own bedchambers was one thing, but roaming unconscious around the school… Severus shuddered (and not from the cold). What had he been doing up here? Where else had he gone tonight? What else had he done?

All questions he couldn't answer.

Gritting his teeth, Severus picked himself up, dusted off his robes, and left the balcony in a few long, quick strides. The castle felt tomb-like as he descended the spiral stairs, adding to his unease when he realized that he was without his wand. Weaponless and helpless – just as he had been in his dream. Severus's frown deepened. His dream. That had been… unpleasant, to say the least.

When Severus had first announced his intentions to meet Frend's mysterious murderer the other night in Dumbledore's office, he had not left the meeting feeling overly shaken (despite Filius and Minerva's valiant attempts at convincing him otherwise). But there had been something about tonight's dream that made him realize what everyone else had only told him in vain. For the first time, as Severus made his way out the door at the bottom of the stairs and through the seventh floor corridor, he truly began to realize the repercussions of his decision.

Of course he had known it was going to be dangerous – he was, after all, throwing himself head-first into a potential death trap – yet, initially, he had simply looked at it as he always did: as a man with nothing to lose.

But, now, with Granger's smiling face haunting his dreams, he began to realize that perhaps he did have something to lose – a very puzzling and frustrating something, though one which was, at the same time, undeniably enrapturing. One he hadn't yet had the chance to fully explore.

Severus would be meeting this supposed traitor in a little over a week. The most he had ever done with Granger was argue and snog—and only occasionally at that. For all he knew, he could be dead in ten days. Honestly, he wanted to… explore… a little more before he kicked it (if he kicked it). Because, somehow, since receiving this mysterious, dangerous summons, Severus's former guilt and shame – that dreadful sense of utter uselessness – had almost entirely disappeared. He had a purpose again. He felt alive again, he was worth something, risking his life for a cause, repaying old debts. And he damn well deserved something in return.

Why did he have to be so sodding proper! Why did he have to make that hands-off rule? Why did he have to keep enforcing it? He'd look like an idiot if he threw it all out the window now. Stupid, he thought. Bloody, fucking stupid.

By the time Severus arrived in his quarters, he had fully accepted the fact that no more sleep was to be had that night. Instead, he seethed. He graded papers, and he seethed. But he also worried.

For, as cold as Severus was. As cruel, distant and dark-spirited as Severus was – even he did not rejoice in the face of his own possible demise.

Only ten more days to go…

* * *

Professor Flitwick's class was noisier than usual today, as everyone had been given half the period free to practice their latest spell.

This lesson was not especially tricky, but, as Flitwick pointed out, making objects transparent was not the same as casting the more familiar _disillusionment _charm.

"You have to consider the object as a whole," he announced to the class from atop a tall stack of books. "You cannot just think: I want to turn this pocket watch invisible. It's not as simple as that. You have to imagine everything that makes up the pocket watch – all its gears and gizmos, the chain, the casing, the ticking hands, the little knobby thing on the end – it all has to be held in your mind as you cast the spell, or else the spell won't work."

Flitwick demonstrated the wand movement again for everyone to see. The class copied his intricate series of swishes with varied expressions of concern and concentration.

"The goal of today's lesson," Flitwick continued, "is to turn as much of your object invisible as possible. Don't be discouraged if at first you are only able to disappear a few missing parts here and there – just keep practicing, and you will find that you can encompass a little bit more of the object each time you try. Now, off you go!"

It was no surprise that Hermione's pocket watch fully disappeared from sight twenty minutes into the lesson, earning her ten points for Gryffindor and a few disgruntled, jealous stares from her classmates. Normally, Harry and Ron might have been frustrated with their own lack of progress (each of them had only managed to make a few of the numbers on the clock faces fade), but today their attention happened to be focused on something else entirely.

"Honestly, I think Hogwarts is as good a place as any to meet," Ron was saying, twirling his wand absent-mindedly and causing the hands of his watch to begin spinning rapidly in every direction.

"Shh," Hermione warned softly.

"Whad'you think, Harry?" Ron continued, pointedly ignoring Hermione.

Harry poked his watch irritably and frowned when it proceeded to emit a small puff of yellow smoke. "I'm not sure," he said. "McGonagall seemed pretty angry when Dumbledore suggested the Order should meet here. And I'm sure that—" Harry glanced briefly towards the front of the class, his voice lowering, "—that Flitwick agrees with her."

"But wouldn't you feel so awful," interjected Hermione, "if someone was caught because of us. You heard what Professor McGonagall said – You-Know-Who is probably watching the castle even now. I hate to say it, Harry, but maybe Professor Flitwick is right. Maybe Dumbledore could just tell you what—"

"Are you mad!" snapped Harry at the very same time that Ron sniped, "Don't be stupid!"

Hermione looked nervously around, but no one within their vicinity seemed to have noticed. "I'm not mad!" she whispered back stubbornly. "I just think it's silly to put everyone else in danger when there isn't a need. Being part of the Order is all well and good, but if that means that we have to—"

"It's not just about being in the Order," Harry hissed, cutting her off. "It's about trust. Adults never seem to have much faith in us, and if they expect us to just show up one day and defeat Voldemort for them, then that needs to change."

"Yeah," Ron agreed.

Hermione shook her head, but did not say anything more. She knew it didn't have anything to do with trust – the way the teachers treated them. They were just worried. Surely on some level they all realized that one day they would have to step back and let Harry "fulfill his destiny" by battling Voldemort (on his own or otherwise). But until that time came, Hermione was convinced that all they really wanted to do was keep Harry safe. If that meant keeping him in ignorance as well, then so be it.

Of course, Dumbledore seemed to have had a change of heart in that particular area these days. It appeared as though keeping Harry ignorant was no longer the priority. Hermione truly believed that if she, Harry and Ron, somehow did _not _end up going to the Order meeting, Dumbledore would make damn sure that Harry, at least, knew every word that was said.

Hermione was not sure where Snape stood on all of this – though she could hardly imagine that the thought of Harry joining the Order made him very pleased. It certainly didn't please her.

Well, alright, on some level she did of course wish to be inducted and "in the thick of it all" instead of wringing her hands uselessly on the sidelines – but, once again, Hermione shied away from the thought of battle and conflict, two things which joining the Order would certainly entail.

Yet she so dearly wanted to help! To do her part! And if she had to fight, then she had to fight, and she would do so to the best of her ability…

_Bother it all_, she thought. _I need to stop thinking about this or I'll go crazy._

Besides, her first potions lesson – sans Professor! – was scheduled to begin today. Despite herself, despite all the time and resources she had spent preparing for it, she was very anxious. After all, how much did she really know about bottled memories? In theory she knew the basics of retrieving and preserving them, but, farther than that, she really didn't know all that much.

Could Snape hear her thoughts in the memories? Could he use Legillimency? Hermione had never even seen a pensive before, much less used it herself, so she couldn't be sure. The only thing she did know was that she did not, in any way shape or form, like the idea of Snape poking freely around in her brain.

Hermione shook her head as the bell rang for end of class and she packed up her book bag to go.

Well, she would just have to take her own advice and let things happen as they happened. Both Snape and Dumbledore seemed to approve of the idea, so it must have some merit at least. And honestly, she had embarrassed herself so many times in front of that man, she wondered whether there was even a shred of dignity left to be protecting anyway.

* * *

Hermione's first lesson went by without a hitch – at least, as far as she could tell. At the end of two hours, she turned the fire beneath her cauldron at a low simmer, packed her materials away in a convenient cupboard the Room of Requirement had provided for her, and left.

Thankfully, the owlry was deserted when she arrived, so Hermione had her privacy while she prepared her notes and transferred the small wisp of memory into a glass container.

_Dreamless Sleep: Stage One_, she wrote on the front of the envelope in which she had managed to cram her extensive research and catalogue of ingredients. Under that she added, _Aprox. Research Time: 5 and 1/2 hours, Aprox. Lab Time: 3 hours._

Then she selected an owl and sent it on its way.

As she watched the bird dive out of sight, Hermione couldn't help but wonder if this was all a big mistake.

* * *

_Session #1 Re: Dreamless Sleep_

As always, Hermione felt an excited little jump in her stomach when she saw the familiar spiky writing. She had received Snape's reply later that same night after dinner and hurried back to her dorm in order to read it. The moment her door closed, she wasted no time in detaching Snape's small envelope from her bottled memory and ripping it open.

_Granger_, the note began.

_Not altogether hopeless for your first attempt._

Hermione gave a little shrug and a half-smile. Alright, it wasn't an insult in any case.

_You seem to have obtained an acceptable grasp on the basics of this potion. I doubt there has ever been a text so religiously followed._

_At this point, I would like to see you begin to take initiative, and experiment with your assignments. If you think improvements can be made to the potion in question, then, by all means, put your theory to use. Anyone can follow directions; what I want you to do is to use those directions more like guidelines. Use them as a foundation to build from in order to create something new and innovative of your own – a feat of which, as we both know, you are fully capable._

_That being said, your overall execution of today's lesson left somewhat to be desired._

Hermione's face fell slightly. Here it comes, she thought, bracing herself. It's not going to be pretty.

It wasn't.

But, surprisingly, Hermione did not find his criticisms overly discouraging (crude and insulting though they were). She reached the end of Snape's prickly, mostly unflattering comments, confident that he was done surprising her, then the last few paragraphs of Snape's reply caught Hermione entirely off-guard:

_Finally, as hot and uncomfortable as working closely with an open flame may be, Miss Granger, unbuttoning even the topmost button of one's shirt is not an acceptable solution to this problem. Though admittedly fetching and provocative in a primitive sort of way, it is however inappropriate and unprofessional, and therefore worthy of admonishment._

_Be very careful, Miss Granger. There is nothing you can do whilst under my scrutiny that will escape due notation._

_As you have requested, so have you been granted._

_I expect nothing less than vast improvements in your work manner to manifest by Friday. Until then, try not to blow yourself up._

_Regards,_

S.S.

* * *

Severus tried not to think about Granger. He tried not to think about her all through breakfast, as she sat there across the room, nibbling on her porridge, sipping her pumpkin juice, laughing uproariously at something the Weasley girl said. He tried not to think about her during his morning class with Hufflepuff sixth years, even as they botched an experiment she could have done at age eleven with her eyes closed. And he tried not to think about her when she strolled into his dungeon that very afternoon amongst her gaggle of friends, glancing briefly at him from beneath her lashes with a look he could not entirely interpret.

Needless to say, Severus tried in vain.

He couldn't help wondering what she had thought of his notes, and how she would respond. Most particularly, he wondered about his final comment. Upon reflection, Severus realized how nauseatingly flirtatious that remark might have come across. It embarrassed him to no end – despite the fact that he continued to tell himself that what was done was done, and there was little he could do about it now.

Severus began the lesson as he usually did, with a short lecture on the complexity involved, and how likely he thought it that anyone would be able to produce something even mildly useful. Then he sent them to their tasks with a gratuitous wave of his hand.

Granger looked at him far more often than was necessary throughout the first hour; he knew this, because he looked at _her _far more often than was necessary throughout the first hour. They never spoke a word to each other. In fact, hardly a glance of anything more than mild interest was exchanged between them. But Severus knew there was something different about her today. What that something was, he hadn't the faintest idea… though it would not be long before he found out.

It was hot in the dungeons. With more than two-dozen flames going at once, how could the air be anything less than stifling? Severus watched as Granger fanned herself lightly with her hand, pulling up her mass of hair into a high bun so as to free the back of her neck. He felt a small shock of excitement within him when he saw that open expanse of skin, remembering how it had felt to lay his lips upon it. How wonderful it would feel to lay his lips upon it now. So warm and soft, he wanted to kiss her, he wanted her to feel the heat of his mouth and his tongue and… Then, suddenly, as though sensing his thoughts, Granger looked up.

Severus held her gaze boldly, quirking an eyebrow at her as though to say, "Yes? May I help you?"

Granger smiled back mischievously (an expression that Severus found he rather liked). What was she thinking? What did she intend to do? He had challenged her, and with her fellow students currently bent over their cauldrons, Severus could not help but anticipate the unexpected.

He was not disappointed.

Severus watched with mounting surprise and disbelief as Granger reached up, trailing her hand along the line of her chest, between her breasts, up to the base of her throat, and carefully, pointedly, unbuttoned the top button of her oxford.

Severus felt his mouth fall open – just a little bit.

Granger raised her eyebrows at him, daring him to say something about it, to reprimand her as he had boasted so sternly that he would in his letter. When he did not immediately do so (in fact, he did not immediately do anything except sit there like a fool and stare disbelievingly at her), Granger reached up and unbuttoned yet another button.

His trousers felt tight, his adrenaline surged. _Wicked_ girl...

Severus watched as she slipped her hand inside her shirt, _inside _her shirt – no more than a few inches - and pushed apart the new opening at her throat, pushed the flimsy fabric slowly wider until the opening was just wide enough that he could see the very, very edge of her… he swallowed hard… lacy red bra.

Uncomfortable at last, being so involuntarily and thoroughly turned on while at the front of a classroom full of students, Severus cleared his throat and looked away, shuffling his papers awkwardly, shifting the tightness in his trousers, and pointedly ignoring what he was sure had become a very smug look on Granger's face.

_Yes_, he thought. _Yes, alright, brava, Granger, you won that one. But if that's the way you're going to play it… this means war._

* * *

She knew she had been taking a risk, but the reward was all the more delightful because of it.

To see his face heat up, his jaw slacken, his eyes cloud over — _divine_. As Hermione gathered her things when the bell rang, making her way out of the dungeon alongside Harry and Ron, she glanced over her shoulder and managed to catch Snape's eyes. She nearly laughed aloud at his outright challenge. The look on his face said quite plainly that what she had just done would not be without consequence. She had better be on the lookout, he seemed to be saying, because Severus Snape was not a man to be out-matched.

Hermione certainly hoped not, for his sake.

She tried often not to think about Snape's impending meeting with Frend's murderer, but it was very difficult to forget. The whole thing could be a trap, probably was a trap, and it pained Hermione to think of what she would do were Snape to be captured, or, Heaven forbid… killed. Yes, she certainly hoped that Severus Snape was not a man to be out-matched.

Hermione suppressed the urge to reach into her pocket and close her hand around the Phoenix Potion, accustomed now to its comforting warmth. She knew exactly what she wished to do with it, but she needed to wait for the right opportunity. Snape was never one to accept a gift blindly, nor without a great deal of coaxing, so Hermione had to play her hand carefully if she wanted him to ever consider using the potion for himself.

And she would have to do so very soon, because it wasn't long before Snape's meeting. Just nine more days. Only nine more days, and then...

Well, best not to think about it.

* * *

Snape's reply to Hermione's saucy victory in the classroom was swift, and the implication that somewhat of a battle had been sparked between the two of them became even more apparent.

_Granger,_

_I had thought you beyond such blatant spectacles of immaturity, but I seem to have been uncharacteristically mistaken._

_An essay, then, for your brash misconduct. Two rolls of parchment in which you explore, define, and discuss "The Niceties of Being Proper" by Pomona Grace, to be handed in to me on Thursday. If you are unable to find a copy of this particular gem in the school library, I am certain that Madam Pince will be more than happy to lend you hers. Perhaps five hundred pages on the do's and don't's of a woman's conduct in the workplace will teach you to pause before embarrassing yourself again in such a manner._

_There is cheeky, and then there is dangerously cheeky, Miss Granger. I suggest that you learn the difference._

_Shocked, appalled,_

_S.S._

* * *

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_I have contacted Madam Pince about the assigned book, and was regretfully informed that it is no longer in print, due to some sort of Witch's Rights movement in the 1940's in which every existing copy was summarily burned. Apparently the do's and don't's expressed by Pomona Grace were considered somewhat demeaning to the strong-minded women of that time. And while I do applaud their efforts, I find myself rather lost as to how to complete my essay without the specified material._

_Perhaps you should make a note to research assignments before handing them out, Professor, and therefore avoid such embarrassing impediments in the future._

_Just a friendly suggestion._

_Your most devoted student,_

_Hermione Granger_

_P.S. Madam Pince was very distraught when presenting me with this information, and I have reason to believe that her copy of the book may have been forcibly taken from her in recent years. She was very close-lipped about it. Your thoughts?_

* * *

_Granger,_

_I find it rather ironic that you would anoint yourself "my most devoted student" while at the same time sending me a letter in which you attempt to excuse yourself from your inability to complete the assigned task. Where is that famed Gryffindor resourcefulness Minerva is always boasting about so disgustingly? If you were hoping to impress me with your findings, Miss Granger, I will not hesitate to inform you that you have failed miserably._

_Therefore, since it appears that you are not up to this particular task, I am forced to assign you a new one._

_Coincidentally, there is something I have been meaning to mention for some time now that is somewhat related to the subject at hand: Surely, I need not remind you that I have saved your ungrateful life a multitude of times, and have yet to receive any sort of official reciprocation. If you will remember, I stayed true to our bargain and honored that ridiculous sentiment of gift-giving, so it seems only fair that you should do the same._

_Another essay, Miss Granger. Two and a quarter rolls parchment. A detailed analysis of the conceptual relationship between "devoted" and "student" - to be handed in on Monday._

_Less appalled, but still passably shocked,_

_Severus Snape_

_P.S. To no one's surprise, but everyone's displeasure, Madam Pince had developed a fixation with her smuggled copy of "The Niceties of Being Proper," and took to quoting it often in the staff lounge. If I am not mistaken, one or more of my fellow professors grew weary of this behavior, deciding amongst themselves to cut it off at its source. Madam Pince has never fully recovered, I think, from finding her beloved book in the library return-tray in irreparable ruins. No culprit has ever been revealed, though I believe with passing conviction that Minerva might have had something to do with it. She did seem rather smug throughout the whole affair._

* * *

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_While I have no trouble admitting to the fact that you have indeed saved my life who-knows-how-many times, I have, in fact, done the same for you._

_Yet, there is something to be said for inane Wizarding customs. I would feel loath to disregard such a long-standing tradition, so I suppose some manner of appropriate recompense is owed. A present then, Professor – two, even, if I'm feeling particularly generous. The only condition is that you will have no say in the manifestation of said presents. This is non-negotiable, I'm afraid._

_I also feel obligated to request a gift from you as well. Lord knows I've earned it._

_Something thoughtful would be nice._

_Or something pretty._

_Preferably both._

_Still your most devoted student,_

_Hermione G._

* * *

_Granger,_

_It continues to amaze me just how acutely bothersome you are capable of being – even in written form._

_Very well._

_I haven't the faintest idea when you shall receive your gift. Preferably soon. For, as much as I do enjoy these elusive little intrigues, I would hate to continue wasting parchment in such a witless, frivolous manner._

_Severus_

_P.S. My notes for your second attempt at Potions making are attached. I must say, prior to these lessons, I have never experienced the Pensieve in such a way, and have since concluded that it is a very strange way to do things._

* * *

_Dear Professor Snape,_

_Thank you for your constructive comments pertaining to my latest assignment. They were very... thorough. I will be sure to incorporate as many of your suggestions as possible in my next session._

_As for our gift exchange, I am almost certain that it will not surprise you to learn that I already have a few specific things in mind. Furthermore, I am almost just as certain that it will not surprise you to find that at least one of these things might draw you the tiniest bit out of your comfort zone._

_In fact, it was you yourself who gave me the idea, Professor. When we discussed a certain issue at the end of my detention last week, you expressed the desire to do something that you dared not do within the walls of Hogwarts. I intend to address this issue._

_Make of that what you will._

_Looking forward to double Potions tomorrow,_

_Hermione_

Well, Severus didn't have the first idea what to make of that. Not in the slightest. And he awaited the ten-thirty class bell that next morning with no small amount of anticipation.

But, nothing extraordinary happened when double Potions began. Granger merely flicked a glance his direction, gave him a coy smile, and then refused to meet his gaze the rest of the period. In fact, the entire lesson went by without any notable event taking place whatsoever.

Severus began to wonder if he had misread Granger's letter. Surely he hadn't. Severus had never been in any habit of misreading things, let alone something as… interesting as Granger's amusing attempts at flirting via owl mail.

All things considered, perhaps it was best to just take her lead and ignore each other. That wouldn't be difficult. Surely not.

* * *

Severus soon found that refraining from looking too often in Granger's direction was a great deal more difficult than he expected. Thankfully, every time he glanced up from the papers he was supposed to be grading, the girl's attention was focused elsewhere, and he was able to pass it off as simply checking on the progress of his many students.

Why hadn't she done anything yet? Class was almost over. Had she forgotten?

Severus felt sick and irritated with himself for caring so much, but there was no denying the wave of disappointment he felt as she continued passively on with her assignment, sparing no attention for anything but the third stage of the _Luminetus _potion, which she, unlike her peers, had mostly completed by now. Severus had begun to grow accustomed to Granger surprising him, and though the fact that she was not currently surprising him was in itself a surprise, Severus did not find that surprise particularly satisfying.

The bell rang. Anyone who had anything left in their cauldron that mildly resembled the appropriate mixture and was capable of being bottled, turned in their samples at Severus's desk. Granger set her (perfect as always, damn her) potion down in front of him without looking up and then left the room sandwiched between the Brainless Duo, giggling at something Weasley said as she settled her book bag more comfortably on her shoulder.

Severus seethed as he watched the door close behind the swarm of students, leaving him alone in the dank, empty classroom. He was angry. Granger had toyed with him, and he had played right into her hands like a fool.

Too agitated to remain sitting, Severus stood swiftly and paced the room, returning to their shelves ingredients that had been carelessly left out, and picking up a book that a student seemed to have left behind.

Just when Severus flipped open the cover and saw **Hermione Granger **printed neatly on the inside page, the classroom door flew open and Severus turned around just in time to see Granger herself approaching – quite fast.

"Forgot my book," she said a little breathlessly, smiling, her cheeks flushed.

Severus opened his mouth, intending to say something snide or derogatory, when Granger snatched the textbook from his hands and then replaced it with a small roll of parchment tied off with a familiar periwinkle ribbon.

"Thanks, Professor," she said. Before Severus could respond, she stood on tip-toe, kissed him full on the mouth, her tongue meshed briefly, hotly, with his, and then she pulled back, and, just as abruptly, scurried off out the door.

One thing was for certain, Severus thought as he looked down at the roll of parchment in his hand… she hadn't lost her knack for surprises.

* * *

Hermione fretted over her hair in the mirror. This was an unusual thing for her to do, of course, but tonight was special and therefore warranted unusual things. Her hair she had not had the time (nor the bravado) to straighten. She put some "product" in it, which she had awkwardly borrowed from Lavender, and somehow managed to tame her bushy mane into something quasi-elegant. Her curls were still rampant and unwilling to be pulled back, though smoother now rather than bushy, framing her face, making her cheeks look a bit rounder, her expression less anxious and more relaxed. Which was a very good thing, because Hermione could not remember feeling more anxious or less relaxed in a very long time.

The parchment she had given Snape contained his first present. A menu. To a very upper class restaurant (the only upper class restaurant) in Hogsmeade: _Le Cheval Dansant._

Her note enfolding the menu had said simply to meet her at the school's front doors at ten-thirty, after curfew. She would be wearing the invisibility cloak, and he would do well to dress nicely (and not be late).

The very last bit of it read:

_You told me that as long as I was a student within these walls, you would never lay a hand on me. Well, for a few hours tomorrow evening, I don't intend to be within these walls, Professor. I'm leaving, whether you agree to come or not, for these reservations were not easy to procure. And though you are undoubtedly free to do as you wish, I suggest that you accompany me. Additionally, I admit that this is sudden, and perhaps not entirely properly handled, but I'm equally sure that you have not forgotten your forthcoming engagement with a certain person – an engagement that, I believe, will take place the following night. I wanted to make sure that I fulfilled my duty as the rescued maiden (giving you your gifts, you greedy git), before you left._

_I hope to see you._

_Hermione_

She had left it there – and so had he, for Hermione had not heard back from him all day. Nor could she catch his eye at meal times. She had to simply trust that he would appear, and that once he joined her, he would not immediately escort her back to her room and lock her inside.

Surely he wouldn't. Snape was many things, but he was, first and foremost, a man, wasn't he? Even _he _had to be feeling nervous about his meeting with the murderer, and certainly he had expressed the desire to… er… do things with her. All manner of inappropriate things, if she had heard him correctly. His chances were running out.

Hermione smoothed down some non-existent wrinkles in her new dress, just to give her hands something to do – and also to admire the sweet rustle the fabric made as she did so. It was such a lovely, lovely little thing. She and her mother had splurged on it last Christmas, but Hermione had never yet had the chance to wear it. As far as clothes went, Hermione thought the dress became her rather well; the shape was somewhat modest, as was to be expected from someone whose favorite attire included jeans and a thick jumper. But it became her. The fabric was such a gorgeous shade of red, deep and luxurious, with a v-neck, a tight waist, and a hem that moved so deliciously around her legs as she walked, ending with just a hint of a ruffle quite a few more inches above her knees than she was entirely comfortable with, as it displayed a significant amount of leg. But… ("Makes you look taller, sweetheart," her mother had said). And Hermione quite agreed.

Anyway, she thought, shaking her head and turning away from the mirror. Time to go.

She paused before pulling on the invisibility cloak (which she had, once again, secretly borrowed from Harry, as she did not think that Harry would have approved of her intended use for it).

_Bloody hell_, she thought, _I hope he comes_.

Then she disappeared from sight and walked out into the stairwell of Gryffindor Tower.

* * *

Fuck it.

Fuck it all.

Severus slipped into his smartly tailored dress robes and ran a hand through his (still so damn short) hair.

For all he knew, he might be dead in forty-eight hours. The girl had taken the initiative to come to him, and her argument was persuasive as all hell. So, fuck it. Fuck it all.

The castle was quieter than usual as Severus made his way through the halls, praying he didn't run into anyone (living or not). Thankfully, he managed to make it to the rendezvous point without incident and stood in a shadowed corner, straightening his close-fitting waistcoat and checking the time on a nearby clock.

As the seconds ticked by without further event, Severus began to feel uneasy. This was ludicrous. Why was he here? He looked ridiculous, and if anyone happened to show up who was not Granger, he would be in a great deal of—

"Hello," said a small, familiar voice – but in a shy, timid sort of way that Severus did not entirely recognize.

"Where are you?" he asked quietly, still feeling wary and self-conscious.

"Here."

A small, warm hand slipped into his. Severus jumped, but did not let go. Why didn't he let go? He probably should… "Let's get this over with, then," he growled instead and turned to stalk through a side door that lead onto the grounds, and eventually, the road to Hogsmeade.

* * *

They walked quickly but quietly, Snape's hand on hers displaying more harshness and possessiveness than would any tender gesture between lovers. It felt like he was trying to keep her from fleeing – though Hermione thought that rather stupid, as she was the one who had initiated this outing in the first place.

Granted, they _were _sort of out in the open – perhaps he was worried for her safety? Then why hadn't he done anything to disguise himself like she had with the cloak?

As though he could hear her thoughts (and maybe he could, Hermione thought with an unpleasant lurch in her stomach), Snape stopped, tapped his wand on his head, muttered the _disillusionment _charm, and all but disappeared from view before continuing on without a word.

_Hm_, Hermione thought, looking nervously around at the moonless, starlit grounds. All the shadowed places beneath trees and around the green houses in which any number of enemies could be lurking. Suddenly, this did not seem like such a good idea after all. They were prime targets for Death Eater attacks, the two of them. No doubt Voldemort was somewhere nearby, brewing up another twisted, evil plan that involved either taking revenge on his spy-turned-traitor, or simply destroying Hogwarts and its inhabitants altogether. Even McGonagall had suggested the idea of the castle being watched by unfriendly eyes.

Hermione felt apprehension shoot up her spine – her flutter of first-date nerves having multiplied swiftly into a fury of suppressed terror deep in her gut. They were out in the open. This was a stupid idea.

But, Snape continued to plow on through the darkness, dragging Hermione behind him, his grip never loosening on her hand.

Snape did not seem to be quite as nervous as Hermione was. Instead, his expression (when last she saw it) had been stern and determined. Hermione figured that Snape was thinking about tomorrow evening, about his meeting, and what he wanted to do before he… well, if he was killed – and, of course, that had been Hermione's full intention all along. She had wanted him to be thinking about the danger he was in, and she had wanted him to be thinking about _how much he wanted to live_. Because, if he was, then with a bit of coaxing, Hermione might be able to persuade him to accept the Phoenix potion after all.

Hermione could feel the potion in question buzzing faintly in the handbag she had clutched against her chest.

Sharply aware of Snape's long strides and grim expression, it seemed to Hermione as though she had awakened some sort of single-minded monster in him. His grip was so demanding! His pace so fast and strong – it was obvious that he wanted to get to Hogsmeade quickly.

Perhaps he simply wanted to get there quickly so that they could leave quickly. Hermione wasn't sure. She had not become so adept yet at reading Snape – though, it was highly probable that no one could become so adept at reading such an emotionally shuttered man, no matter how much time they spent in his company.

They reached Hogsmeade much sooner than Hermione could have anticipated, and with muttered instructions from Snape, Hermione found that she was "not allowed" to remove her cloak until they were safely seated at their table. This annoyed her slightly, but she did not say anything in protest, grateful that she had at least managed to get her Professor this far without balking.

* * *

Severus removed the _disillusionment _charm from himself. Then he dragged Granger off the shaded path on which they had been standing and forward into the dimly lit street, snow crunching beneath their feet, loud conversations and ringing laughter drifting in and out of the surrounding pubs as they passed.

Within moments, Snape saw the sign for the restaurant – a white horse prancing around a brown and gold backdrop – and headed straight for it, careful all the time not to appear rushed. He walked with purpose, yes, but with a subdued gait, so as to melt into the crowd, uninteresting and inconspicuous.

There were a few people milling around outside when they arrived, all bundled up and waiting for a table. Good, Severus thought. That meant the place would be busy; he and Granger were less likely to be noticed.

Severus was just about to ask Granger to confirm she had made the reservations when he felt her tap him on his shoulder and whisper in his ear that she had. Reservations for two, under the name 'Concannon'. That name tickled at Snape's memory, and more than a few seconds went by before he remembered the name belonging to an unfortunate couple whose plane tickets he and Granger had stolen when on their way to Switzerland. The realization nearly made him smile, but he quickly suppressed it.

Negotiating the crowed with Granger in tow was tricky, yet they managed it somehow. Once inside, the maître d' (upon Severus's request for something more "private") led them to an adequately sheltered booth in the far corner of the room, romantically lit and surrounded by a revolting amount of flowers and potted plants. This table was obviously meant for canoodling couples, which made Severus uncomfortable, but they were far less likely to be seen here, so he did not complain.

Severus made a show of fussing with his coat, telling the maître d' that his lady guest would be arriving shortly, in order to give Granger time to settle herself in the booth. Or, at least, that's what he thought he was giving her time to do, but the moment the uptight gentleman left (immediately after Severus had given him a very significant look that said plainly how little he enjoyed people who hovered), Severus said, "Alright, take it off, then," at which point Granger materialized just beside his right shoulder.

Severus turned and was about to chide her… then found that he had entirely forgotten where he kept his voice.

Granger was stunning in a simple red gown. Hair all a tumble about her face, heavy curls framing her cold-flushed cheeks and shining gold from the firelight of surrounding candles, glints of gold that smoldered with equal beauty in the depths of her liquid brown eyes.

As was customary, Severus recovered quickly. He snapped his jaw closed, found his voice, and slipped a hand almost lazily into his pocket. He gave Granger a very pointed once-over with an eyebrow raised – a look that was supposed to make her blush uncomfortably, but which merely made her smile.

"Is this supposed to be my second present?" he asked simply.

Granger laughed throatily in response, a sort of laugh that he had never heard from her before – deep, rich, and amused – and Severus felt the tiniest of swoops in his stomach. Bloody hell, that was a great laugh.

"What? This old thing?" she replied coyly, rolling her eyes and slipping into the rounded booth.

_What a saucy, surprising little vixen she's turned out to be_, Severus thought, as he too slid into the booth, and, as casually as he could manage, picked up a menu in order to give his eyes something else to look at besides his "lady guest's" round and inviting cleavage.

* * *

Hermione was glowing, inside and out. The terror she had previously felt, now replaced by a sort of contented happiness and self-confidence that she rarely felt anywhere but a library.

The maître d' returned after a short time, bearing beverage menus and the night's specials. Snape, to Hermione's chagrin, ordered for both of them (soup appetizers and a bottle of what Hermione could only assume was a very expensive wine). Hermione gave him a very annoyed look once they were alone again. She wasn't made of galleons, after all, and intended to tell him so. He spoke first.

"I know you had your heart set on treating me to dinner, Granger, but I'm afraid that I am rather old-fashioned when it comes to certain things. I want what I want, and I want an expensive meal – therefore I think it only fair that I should pay."

"But that's just—" Hermione snapped her mouth shut. Alright. Fine. If he wanted to blow his money on fine wine, then so be it. Who was she to complain? She narrowed her eyes at him anyway. "This does not get you another present, I hope you know," she said, and Snape merely grunted in amusement, the ghost of a smile alighting on his face.

"The thought never crossed my mind," he replied.

Hermione figured it was wise to wait for their main course to be served before broaching the subject of his second present – the Phoenix potion – as she did not want to have to skirt around constant distractions and interruptions from the restaurant's waiting staff (who had all become noticeably more attentive and enthusiastic once they realized that their guests in the far corner appeared to be sporting a rather generous purse).

When it came, their meal consisted of some sort of chicken marinated in a light sauce and surrounded by a forest of herbs – Hermione paid it little attention. She was growing nervous again. Unsurprisingly, it did not take long for Snape to notice.

"What's bothering you?" he asked, a bit roughly, once their conversation had lulled.

Hermione twisted the napkin in her lap around and around. "Nothing's bothering me, per se… I mean, all right, I suppose I am a bit um… You see I…" She took a breath and then forced a smile. "It's your second present. I would like to give it to you now."

* * *

Severus said, "No."

The vial of golden liquid lay humming on the white tablecloth between them, with Granger nudging it his direction, and him stubbornly refusing to touch it.

It was not necessarily the thing itself that bothered Severus (though he never tended to welcome such aid with open arms), but more the way in which Granger had offered it to him, the words she had used.

"Go on – take it. You need this more than I do."

Those were the very words she had used in his dream just a few short nights ago – when she had pressed something golden and glowing into his palm and was then promptly killed right before his eyes. Without meaning to, Severus had convinced himself that if he took this from her – took it _away _from her – she would die. After all, she was killed once before, and it was a very likely possibility that she could be killed again. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he had stolen this remarkable bottle of miracles away, only to have her need it later.

Severus obviously did not express all of these sentiments (he would rather die than speak of such things), but it was not overly difficult to make his general point. It was clear that Granger had approached this conversation with more than a little doubt over the possibility of its success; after a few minutes or so, she conceded.

Angry, disappointed, almost mutinous in the way that she glared at him across the table, she still conceded, and Severus was glad for it.

What he did not tell her – though he suspected she might have guess as much – was that merely the thought, the offer, of such a valuable thing was far more than enough for Severus. It meant something to him that she worried so deeply over his wellbeing, that she thought of him, that she would fight to keep him. If possible, it endeared her to him even more.

* * *

By dessert, Hermione had let her fury die to a low simmer, deciding to focus instead on enjoying the rest of the evening. This was a dearly rare occurrence, after all. Dining in a public restaurant with Snape, all alone in their little booth. Somehow, Hermione got the feeling that an opportunity like this would not come along again anytime soon… if ever (but she tried not to think about that).

She scooted around in her seat until she was nearly pressed up against Snape's side. Even seated, he seemed so tall. But his body was warm and relaxed, and they had each had more than their fair share of wine. She was feeling bold.

"So, you like the dress?" Hermione asked suggestively, settling her hand down upon Snape's knee.

Snape did not show any physical display of surprise at her forwardness.

She slid her hand higher, leaning toward him to press her chest against the side of his arm.

Snape turned to her almost instantly, giving her a look that told her very plainly how much he enjoyed everything to do with the dress. With on hand, he swept a curl from her face with a slow, sensual movement.

Hermione's heart fluttered as a wave of heat washed over her body.

He was looking at her with such want and desire. His eyes were on fire with it.

"I think we ought to get the bill," he said and then pulled away, signaling to a passing waiter.

Hermione could have slapped him.

* * *

It was snowing when they left the restaurant. The streets, unlike when they arrived, had mostly emptied. The air was cold, and Hermione pulled the invisibility cloak tight around herself, wishing with a pang of ridiculous bitterness that it was a _fur _invisibility cloak that Harry had inherited.

Hermione had thought they would immediately head back to the castle – Snape never did seem the sort of man to linger. But before they could make it half a block, Snape made an abrupt turn, pulled Hermione down a dark, deserted alleyway, and ushered her into a deeply shadowed alcove between Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop and Gladrags Wizardwear (both of which were closed for the night).

"What – what are you doing?" Hermione asked quietly, pulling off the hood of her cloak so Snape could see where she was.

The instant she did so, Snape grabbed her by the waist and all but threw her up against the wall, his face mere inches away from hers, his breathing already deep and lusty.

"You smell incredible," he said.

Hermione smiled. "Thanks," she replied, rather breathless herself. "I borrowed it. Something called Midnight Pomegranate."

Snape was so very close, head bent to hers, as they continued to whisper softly so as not to be heard by passing strangers. Hermione wondered if it even mattered, for the thud of her heartbeat was so loud it was sure to give them away.

"How appropriate," Snape replied, leaning, if possible, even closer. His lips ghosted over her temple, his chest expanding as he breathed in her scent.

"What is? Midnight?"

"The _witching hour_," he growled huskily in her ear, and Hermione felt a violent, pleasurable shiver run down the entire length of her body.

Snape then slid his hands into her hair and braced the back of her head. He closed what distance remained between them at lat, grazing her lips softly with his own. He was all she could smell, all she could feel. The heat of his breath sent waves of pinpricks all over her chin and down her neck. Hermione pushed off the wall, giving herself leverage so that she could deepen the kiss, be closer to him, feel more of him, and show him a bit of fire. She thrust her tongue roughly against his, capturing his bottom lip in her teeth. His beard scratched against her skin and she loved it. There was just so much of him all of a sudden, all around her. Hermione had never realized just how tall Snape was, just how wide his chest was, and how much the sheer amount of him, pressing up against her, excited her.

Snape responded to her aggression instantly. His tongue fought with hers. His hands moved roughly over her shoulders and down the length of her arms. He grabbed her wrists and drew them up sharply, pinning them against the brick wall above her head.

Hermione liked that, and she let him know, giving him a low, playful moan as he pushed his full body against her, trapping her against the building. Hard brick against her back, warm muscle against her front. Hermione wriggled a little, testing his hold. Unsurprisingly, his hold held. He was strong, she knew, but she was strong too, and she wanted him to test her. Always a battle of power between them, it seemed – but this was a battle that Hermione did not mind fighting. There were rivers of delight crashing through every inch of her. This felt so good, so perfect in every way. Fucking Christ, how could she have gone so long without feeling this man against her. How could she have survived without knowing how it felt to submit to such raw, physical pleasure.

Snape's grip shifted, transferring both of Hermione's wrists into one hand so that his other was free to roam. Then he broke their hungry kiss and Hermione mourned the loss. But not for long, because a moment later Snape was gently sweeping away the hair at her shoulder, using his deft fingers to peel open the invisibility cloak. She shivered as he exposed a long portion of skin at her neck to the frigid air. _Ooooh, yes_, she thought. _Oh yes. I taunted you in class, and I knew you'd be aching for it_. Snape slipped his hand beneath the fabric of her dress and pushed it down to reveal the edge of her lacy red bra. _Eat your heart out, Professor_.

In an instant, Snape descended on her, kissing her, nipping her, licking her with his warm mouth, his hand at her breast, no longer shy, no longer hesitant, but bold and grasping and kneading, until Hermione's toes curled, and she moaned deep her in her throat, and her hips bucked violently against his. It was this last action that caused Snape to momentarily cease his attentions. His hand left her breast, his mouth left her skin, and he rested his whiskery cheek almost wearily against hers.

"This is – where we stop," he said gruffly.

But Hermione was nearly delirious with need. "I don't — I don't want you — to stop," she gasped out. She captured his earlobe in her mouth. She pushed her heaving chest, so tender and aching to be touched, against him.

Snape's breathing grew heavier. "If I don't stop now – I won't - be able to stop at all."

"So what," Hermione hissed, grinding her hips against his; she could feel the confirmation of his words pressing hot and throbbing into her stomach.

Hermione wondered for a moment if she had gone too far, expecting him to pull away, but he didn't. He groaned instead, eyes closed, jaw clenched, his hand clamping down so tightly on her wrists that she could feel her bones creak.

"I mean it, Hermione," he ground out thickly. "Is this really what you want? To be fucked against a filthy, back-alley wall next to the dustbins?" He was positively panting now, sweat trickling down his neck and matting together the hair at his temples. The heat that radiated from him was so strong, Hermione found herself forgetting it was the dead of winter.

A wave of shame somehow penetrated the haze of desire that enveloped Hermione's world. She pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No," she admitted softly. "No, you're right – this is not the place." She bit her lip, her eyebrows drawing together. "Sorry," she said.

To her surprise, Snape chuckled heavily into her shoulder. Then he drew away slightly, so she could see his face; how the corners of his eyes crinkled, how that sneaky little dimple appeared beneath the scruff on his right cheek. "Don't be," he replied, still with a wry smile, still amused, still quite out of breath. He kissed her again, roughly, his body molding to hers one last time, his desire so hot and obvious against her hip. "Certainly nothing to be sorry about."

Then he released her wrists and fell back against the opposite wall, holding his hand to his head as he exhaled heavily. "But Merlin help me, Granger, I'm going to need a few bloody minutes to cool off before we go back into public again."

Hermione laughed a laugh that she felt touched her very soul, so pure and happy and lucky did she feel in that moment.

And at the same time, another notion fell over her like a sweet-smelling, gossamer veil. This was it. No going back now.

_Great_, she realized. _I probably love him now. God, I'm such a sap._

* * *

Random A/N: Midnight Pomegranate. Much love BBW. xD


	24. When a Loved One's Involved

**Chapter Twenty-four:**

First period. Potions.

He wasn't there.

Hermione had never in her life thought she would be unhappier to see a person than she was to see Professor McGonagall that morning. The minute her straight-backed Gryffindor Head entered the room, Hermione felt a vicious shock of horror drop into the pit of her stomach — like a heap of heavy, slow burning coals, pressing against her abdomen, scalding her insides. She knew her reaction was over dramatic, her sense of immediate doom not entirely justified, and yet no matter how Hermione tried, she could not banish it. All she could think about was that their dinner the previous night might have been the last time she would ever see Snape alive.

Again, Hermione felt a touch of revulsion towards herself for thinking such drastically negative thoughts... _But_, she thought, _people often have a tendency to exaggerate things when a loved one's involved_. And there certainly was a loved one involved. Wasn't there? Hermione had never told him as much (and in all honesty, she was not quite sure she would ever be able to tell him as much), but she was smitten to the bone with her Professor. And she quite got the feeling that he felt the same way.

"Are you alright, Hermione?"

Harry nudged her, and, startled, Hermione looked at him. A moment later she managed to give him a small nod, while at the same time feeling as though she very well might throw up into his cauldron. Unsurprisingly, Harry did not seem convinced by her answer. Something on Hermione's face must have shown how little she wanted to discuss it, however, so Harry did not ask again.

McGonagall began the lesson by conjuring up Snape's notes onto the chalkboard and telling everyone to keep quiet as they began their work.

Hermione felt herself go through the actions of Potions making as though in a daze, all of her thoughts and energy focused elsewhere. At the end of the lesson, she had no idea what potion she had ended up making. It certainly wasn't the one assigned to them for that period. Even Ron noticed the ungodly purple hue of what was supposed to be a syrupy silver concoction.

"What the bloody hell is that?" he asked incredulously. "Did you do something _wrong_? And why're you so pale? You'd think there was a Dementor in here."

Hermione shrugged in answer to all three questions and simply bottled up her purple goop. Then she took it to the front of the class where she handed it silently over to McGonagall – who raised her eyebrows, but otherwise did not comment on either Hermione's severely botched assignment or her bizarre behavior.

Hermione left the room feeling like the living dead, sandwiched as always between Harry and Ron, unable to speak a word to them of what was stampeding through her terror-stricken mind.

_He'll be fine, he'll be fine, he'll be fine_, she kept telling herself. Nothing could block out those images of Snape's death that burned so stubbornly in the front of her mind: how it would happen, how she would find out, who would tell her, how they would tell her, what she would say, how she would act, what she would do...

It was too much. Hermione skipped lunch and instead spent that time in the Room of Requirement, throwing ceramic dishes against the walls and obliterating pieces of wooden furniture with her wand. Somehow, that room always did manage to figure out exactly what she needed most – and what she needed most, was to blow off some steam, tire herself out so that she wouldn't have the energy to work herself into a frayed bundle of nerves.

The exertion helped quite a bit – maniacal though it was – which meant that Hermione entered into her afternoon class with higher spirits and slightly more color in her cheeks (though, this was due more, perhaps, to the exercise than to a change in nerves). She was not entirely back to normal, but that portion of her brain that was continuously screaming for her to go find Snape and haunt his footsteps, annihilating anything dark and evil that might try to spring at him from shadowed alleyways, was smaller now, and pushed farther around to the back of her head. The importance of her studies somehow managed to nose their way in. She was more determined than ever not to make any more mistakes on her next assignment.

* * *

The heavy pot Hermione had been holding fell to the floor with an almighty crash, scattering fertilizer everywhere, along with all of her carefully cocooned Draginolaseeds which immediately burst from their pods and rolled full-tilt for the Greenhouse door. After a moment of hesitation, Hermione ran after them. Professor Sprout sprung to her aid as well, and between the two of them, they managed to nab most of the seeds before they could escape. Professor Sprout grudgingly docked three House points from Hermione for her blunder, whispering under her breath that Hermione would probably make them up in her next class anyway. This may have been true, except Hermione barely had enough time left in the period to redo everything, which might mean further points off if she didn't get her act together. Five seconds ago, this would have bothered her. As it were, at that very moment, she was far too busy being terrified out of her mind. Only, this was not the same terror that had enveloped her before (regarding Snape). This terror involved the same man, and yet was directed towards an entirely different, though still completely horrifying, situation.

Hermione returned warily to her chair (with the Draginolaseeds squeaking indignantly and wriggling around in the newly repaired, but otherwise empty, flower pot) and sat down next to Seamus Finnigan… who had been telling their table a uniquely interesting story.

"I swear it, honest – at that dancing horse place in Hogsmeade."

"Snape? OUR nasty old Professor Snape?"

"YES! At a restaurant, snogging some woman, I'm telling you. My cousin Marla waitresses there sometimes and she saw the whole bloody thing."

Hermione's lungs had ceased to function. The pot in her hands squeaked ominously in her tight grip, threatening to shatter all over again.

"How old was she? The girl with Snape."

"Young, I think – in her early twenties maybe."

"Atta boy!"

"Nice."

"Oh _gross_!"

"What? He's a man isn't he?"

"We all have urges, Lavender."

"Piss off, Seamus."

Ever so slowly, Hermione felt her throbbing heart recede down her throat and settle back into her chest again, quivering and shaking with the after-effects of adrenaline. They didn't know. They didn't know the identity of the girl Snape had been with at the restaurant.

But ooooh, that had been close.

If Seamus's cousin had recognized Hermione in any way (Lord knows the _Daily Prophet _had printed enough pictures of her), she and Snape could have been in serious trouble — not the least of which would have been a sacking for Snape and expulsion for her.

In fact, instead of instant humiliation or fierce suspicion, Hermione seemed to have inadvertently managed to make Snape somewhat of a… what did Dean say?

A _stud_?

* * *

It was ridiculous, this spot he had chosen. A Muggle pub – cold, dank, unfriendly, cliché as all hell. Severus felt insulted.

Apparently this masked man of mystery was unaware that dingy Muggle pubs were regular haunts for Death Eaters in search of… well, most things (gullible strangers, victims, traitors to the Dark Lord, etc.). On the other hand, this man was a Death Eater himself, and would undoubtedly take this into account. Word was at last starting to spread around the Wizarding world about the Dark Lord's return, so Severus supposed that it would be less likely now for any Death Eaters to go poking around willy nilly through the dark pockets of London. They were more likely to be seen or apprehended in such obvious attraction traps for dark wizards in search of their weekly entertainment.

Perhaps this bar was not such a poor choice after all, Severus thought. That is, assuming that this meeting was not a set-up, and there weren't twelve fully armed Death Eaters waiting around the corner to do him in. The fact that this did not seem like an altogether unfathomable possibility obviously did nothing to settle his nerves.

Severus sat down at a small table pushed up against the back wall, and waited. He waited a long time. Then, just as his unease was beginning to become unbearable, a cloaked figure fell into the empty seat opposite him.

Severus tightened his grip on the wand he was currently holding beneath the table.

"Didn't mean to be so late," the man said gruffly. "Been having trouble getting around these days."

Severus frowned. The man's voice sounded strangely familiar. "Fascinating though that is," he drawled dutifully, "I'm afraid I must ask why—"

The man looked up, the dim light from the overhead lamp caught his face, and Severus lost whatever thought had previously been running through his head. His unfinished question died in his mouth, immediately forgotten.

Severus swallowed dryly and gave a slow, halting nod of recognition.

"Travers," he said. "What may I do for you?"

* * *

She awoke the next morning knowing something had happened. No one had told her, of course, but somehow she just… had that feeling. And obviously she didn't know _what _had happened, nor why she felt so strongly that something was not right, yet, as the dull gray light of morning crept through her curtains, Hermione gave an anxious shiver of trepidation.

She dressed quickly, with a slight tremble in her hands. As she did so, Hermione tried to think on whom she should approach first. Snape would clearly be the ideal person, and if he were back in the castle (as he should be by now), she intended to go to him immediately after his morning class. But the trouble of the matter was… Hermione had the mysteriously ultimate feeling that Snape was not where he was supposed to be.

Which brought her back to the problem at hand: whom could she ask for news? Dumbledore? She was so frightened of him these days. Dumbledore had warned Snape about the possible problems of Death Eaters thinking that he and Hermione were somehow involved (and therefore targeting Hermione in order to get important or influential secrets out of Snape). Snape had assured Dumbledore that nothing was going on – and at that time, there hadn't been – but even though Dumbledore had believed him, Hermione did not want to give her Headmaster any new reasons to doubt that statement.

Could she ask Hagrid maybe? Would he even know? It was difficult to locate him sometimes and she didn't want to waste the time looking. Even if she did find him, he had never been exactly eager to reveal information. He also might question why Hermione was so curious about the fate of such an ill-loved professor – and that was definitely not something Hermione had any intention of discussing.

McGonagall seemed like the safest bet. She was the most likely to know something – though, she was also one of the most close-lipped people Hermione had ever met. About most things. Sometimes Hermione found it quite easy to cajole the truth from her (but only if the situation were adequately urgent). It would all depend. Anyway, she might as well try. If Snape was not at breakfast, McGonagall was the first person Hermione would go to.

Hermione quickly finished zipping up her skirt and exited the room. There were a few students milling around the common room when she reached the bottom of the stairs, all preparing to go to breakfast. Harry and Ron were among them, and it took only one look at their faces for Hermione to realize that she was not the only one who had woken this morning with a sense of foreboding.

None of them said anything as Hermione joined them in front of the fireplace. None of them had anything to say. They all knew just as much as the other and it was a waste of breath to attempt to pretend any different.

Together they climbed through the portrait hole and winded their way down through the castle to breakfast. Hermione's eyes roved anxiously over the staff table the moment they entered. Her heart plummeted within seconds.

Where was he?

The rest of Hogwarts's staff had already assembled and were going through the motions of eating – though it was impossible not to notice the alarmingly dispirited fashion in which they were doing so.

Despite Hermione's intention to do otherwise, the three of them sped down the length of the Gryffindor table and made straight for Dumbledore. He saw them as they approached and shook his head. They approached anyway.

"I will make an announcement to the school momentarily, once everyone has arrived," he said before Hermione had barely opened her mouth. "No sooner."

"But—"

"Take your seat, Mr. Potter," interrupted McGonagall sharply.

"But, Professor Sn—"

"And you, Miss Granger. For heaven's sake – how do you suppose this looks?"

Hermione realized instantly. They were not supposed to know about anything — good or bad — that might have happened last night. The Order meeting they had attended nearly two weeks ago was never supposed to have taken place. "Let's go," she said to Harry and Ron, turning around and walking away from the staff table as quickly, yet casually, as she could manage.

Harry and Ron followed rather hesitantly in her wake.

"Why did you do that?" asked Ron in a tense whisper as they took their seats. He looked ready to leap right back out of his seat again and run to the staff table waving his arms and yelling for answers.

Surprisingly, Harry answered.

"It looks suspicious, Ron."

Ron gave him a rather blank look. "What – talking to teachers?"

"Yes," answered Hermione. "Especially right before Dumbledore makes… whatever announcement he's about to make." She leaned in closer as two Gryffindor third years slid into seats nearby. "You know how we always manage to catch ourselves up in every disaster that blows our way. People tend to associate us with anything news-worthy right off the bat. We don't need to give them extra evidence to link us with last night. We're getting into really dangerous stuff here."

"OK..." said Ron, still sounding hesitant.

"I just hope Snape managed to learn something useful," replied Harry.

_I just hope Snape managed to stay alive_, Hermione added in her head. She looked back at the staff table and her eyes lingered on Snape's empty seat. She glanced at the other professors, and though it might have been her imagination, Hermione thought they too seemed wary and suspicious of their missing colleague.

Waiting for the rest of the Hogwarts students to arrive was nothing short of torture. Hermione spent that time trying to convince herself that if Snape had died, surely Dumbledore or McGonagall would have had the decency to say so – or at least imply as much.

Maybe he had been captured, she thought.

Well, and fine. She would just have to go rescue him again. She'd done it before. No big deal.

Except that it was a big deal, and she sincerely hoped that Snape had simply caught a bad case of the flu or something. Unlikely and ridiculous though that seemed.

At last Dumbledore stood, clearing his throat loudly over the clamor of voices and clinking silverware. It took several moments of everyone shushing each other before the room was at last silent.

"Good morning, students," Dumbledore began in a dulcet, somber tone.

Hermione's heart leapt into her throat. This did not sound promising.

"I fear that I must burden your morning with terrible news. And though I am certain that you will soon be reading of this news in tomorrow's papers, I thought it best that you learn the truth as soon as possible." There was an emphasis on the word 'truth' that did not go unnoticed by the majority of listeners. Dumbledore took a breath. "Last night, our dear Professor Snape was apprehended by Ministry officials for—"

"He was WHAT?" Without meaning to, Hermione suddenly found herself on her feet, attracting attention from more than just her fellow Gryffindors.

At the staff table, Professor Flitwick's mouth had fallen slightly open, Professor Sinistra was peppering an empty fork, and Professor McGonagall was looking at Hermione with a shrewd, reproachful expression on her face. Dumbledore simply looked shrewd.

"Please, allow me to finish, Miss Granger," he said, "and then you may be free to ask all the questions you feel are appropriate."

Embarrassed despite it all, Hermione sat down. Both Harry and Ron watched her with mirrored expressions of surprise (as did several other Gryffindors in the vicinity).

"As I was saying," Dumbledore continued. "Professor Snape was apprehended by Ministry officials last night at a Muggle pub in London. He is to be tried on the seventh of May for the murder of known Death Eater, Adrian Travers."

There was a collective gasp from everyone in the Great Hall — all except for Hermione, who had one hand clapped firmly to her mouth and the other gripping the underside of the bench to keep herself from springing unexpectedly to her feet again. Furious murmurs and exclamations of surprise erupted at every table.

As Dumbledore went on, quiet fell again almost instantly. "Though Professor Snape is regrettably unable to tell you himself the circumstances under which this unfortunate accident occurred, I can assure you that he used such measures purely out of self defense. Of course, you are free to come to your own conclusions and harbor your own opinions about this dreadful tragedy, but I implore you to withhold such decisions until all the facts have come to light. The papers you will receive in tomorrow's post are certainly within their rights to print whatever they would like, but I ask you not to take everything you read at face value."

The stares were unblinking, the silence was ringing and the overcast sky gave a distant rumble as Dumbledore paused slightly before speaking again.

"And finally," he said, with a hollow, dejected echo in his voice that revealed a surprising glimpse into his inner strife. "I would simply like to say that Professor Snape has my unwavering support, and though I cannot speak for any of you, I invite you to join me in giving our dear Potions Master the benefit of the doubt."

He put a hand on McGonagall's shoulder, whose head was bowed as she stared woodenly at the untouched food on her plate.

Dumbledore gave a sad smile. "Despite any past grudges or disagreements, I hope that all of us may keep Professor Snape in our thoughts and prayers as he faces what are sure to be some very long and difficult weeks ahead."

Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and high above the vaulted ceiling, a storm was beginning to brew.


	25. Access

**THE DAILY PROPHET**

March 15th

We hate to say we told you so, but, then again, we told you so, _writes Penny Page, Daily Prophet Reporter_. Despite many protests and urgings from countless voices in our community, Albus Dumbledore, headmaster at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has continued to retain suspected former Death Eater, Severus Snape, on his teaching staff. Professor Severus Snape was previously dropped of all charges nearly sixteen years ago after the testimony given by his employer, and still, the Wizarding world has found ample room for suspicion.

"He's always been shifty, that one," says Penelope Winkle, an employee at Galadrag's Wizard Wear. "So secretive—wearing those long sleeves. No matter what the weather! I've never trusted him for a moment."

Certainly Professor Snape's actions of late have done nothing to debunk such assaults on his character. Poisoning a student, sparking fires in the Forbidden Forest, snatching young girls and disappearing for months at a time. We wonder how Dumbledore managed to let it get this far. Until now, nothing has been done, no lines have been drawn, and Professor Snape has been allowed full, unhindered access to the young and impressionable minds of Britain's young witches and wizards.

However... happily, fortunately, this reign of terror, this uninterrupted string of dark deeds gone unpunished, has at last come to an end. Not twenty-four hours ago, Severus Snape was apprehended by Ministry Officials at the _Admiral Aces_ pub in central London. Eyewitness reports confirm that the struggle was brief and that Hogwarts' former Professor gave himself up to Officials within moments of realizing that he had been surrounded. Whether or not he did so for appearance's sake or out of genuine remorse is yet to be determined, but there is no question that the public at large is entirely supportive of the arrest. Yours truly is happy to write, with complete sincerity, that she had the unique privilege of witnessing first-hand this criminal's admittedly quiet, yet no less glorious, send-off to a Ministry holding cell.

He is behind bars, dear readers, and unlikely to emerge for a long time to come.

Trial has been set to take place on the 7th of May in order to determine his admittance to Azkaban Prison. Here's to hoping for a good turnout. Mark your calendars! If enough opposition makes itself present in that courtroom, silent or otherwise, surely even Dumbledore's formidable clout may be thwarted by the people's demand for justice.

* * *

**THE HAT**  
March 17th

This just pulled out of _T__he Hat_:

It was not but two days ago that Severus Snape (former Potions Professor of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry) threw us all into shock, terror, and awe by single-handedly slaughtering the previously hospitalized Adrian Travers—and doing so without even a thimble-full of remorse! And that's not the half of it. Until now, the universally accepted perception has been that this murder was, though tragic, an exclusively contained event. But new rumors are surfacing that point to something much deeper, much darker, much more traitorous than we initially could have ever imagined. I speak of a plot, people—a conniving, diabolical plot aimed at taking down our very own and beloved Minister of Magic!

Though the details of such dastardly plans are still under wraps, it is obvious that these suspicions are not entirely unfounded, for, as of this morning, at 5:35 on the button, Severus Snape was transferred to a "temporary" cell in Azkaban prison. Whether or not this cell will become permanent is still under heated debate, and will probably continue to be so for a long time to come. There has been no word as to how long the Ministry plans on keeping him on the island prior to his trial. Judging by public opinion polls, there won't be much of a fight to secure his release, and he very well may remain in Azkaban until the 7th of May. A few supporters have managed to make themselves heard over the past few days—former students, Professors, lunatics all—with desperate pleas and pledges of faith, attempting to confirm the ex-Professor's "moral purity"—but, thus far, their words have fallen upon deaf ears.

Severus Snape—traitor? Murderer? Innocent until proven guilty? Whatever the verdict, he is now firmly ensconced in Azkaban prison, and my question to you, Britain, is—Should he remain?

Please mail in your thoughts to:  
Geoffery Cartwright  
Executive Editor  
_The Hat_

Cheers.

* * *

**FROM THE DIARY PAGES OF HERMIONE JANE GRANGER**

March 26th

Dear Diary,

Well, I've sent him several letters—all of them short, none of them signed—and each one has been returned to me unopened and with nothing but a terse note from the Ministry saying, "Prisoners are not allowed mail." I knew it was a long shot after all, but worth a try, I think. At least for a few days I was able sit through class, safe in the hope that I had at least done SOMETHING (small and trivial though it might have been). But, now, quite honestly, I am unable to muster anything past vague resignation. Already there have been rumors that his trial date is to be moved. Some even say months down the line! Will this nightmare never end?

It's times like this I wish…

Certainly, on the whole, I enjoy being one of the (very) few in the world who understand him, and though it seems selfish to say, I like to feel that because of this I am able to keep him almost entirely to myself. But, a lot of the time, especially now, I wish there were others who cared for him. I wish Harry cared for him. All Harry cares for now is finding You-Know-Who. Which, I suppose, we can't blame him for. He was, for reasons passing my understanding, chosen to follow this path. But revenge is always on his mind, and I don't much care for the look in his eyes. He's awfully pale. He and Ron fight quite often now, too. In fact, even as I write this they are sitting at opposite ends of the common room, avoiding eye contact and sulking as they pretend to do their homework. It was something about Mr. Weasley, I think. Harry said something insensitive, or made a remark, I'm not sure. I try not to get involved these days.

Harry hasn't told Ron yet, but he claims to be developing a plan. I'm not certain what exactly this plan is meant to accomplish, though it isn't difficult to guess the general direction of intent.

He says this plan will involve me.

He says I need to be ready. That I need to practice my flying and be ready "to go" at a moment's notice.

I'm worried.

Anyway, I'll write more later. Lavender needs help with her Transifguration homework.

April 3rd

Dear Diary,

It's been confirmed! That nasty Penny Page has just published in The Daily Prophet that his trial has officially been moved to NOVEMBER in order to "accommodate for new evidence" and to "make certain that all involved receive proper attention and scrutiny." No doubt these new accusations are coming from nothing but a load of crotchety old brown-nosers looking to stir up a fight or get their names in the papers.

There were an awful lot of witnesses at the pub that night…

Bloody hell how I wish I knew what REALLY happened!

I'm sure he's made several statements by now, detailing the true nature of the accident (for I can't for a moment think it anything but an accident, as he certainly did not go to that pub with any intention to kill), however nothing of his personal story has been released. The Ministry is keeping quite a nifty grip on things, I must say.

I so dearly want nothing more than to lock Fudge up in my traveling trunk with one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts and give the whole thing a good hard shake! Honestly, he deserves far worse than that, but my imagination is failing me at the moment.

I might as well mention—though it's quite depressing—that I have come to dread opening the paper each morning. It seems like nothing good ever happens in the Wizarding World anymore.

I write to my parents as often as I can. Thankfully, they continue to assure me that they are both safe and well (albeit confused and frustrated—frightened, too, I think, though they have never said as much). I hope the weather is nice wherever they are. It's dreadful here. Haven't seen the sun for weeks.

I wonder if there are windows in the cells at Azkaban.

I wonder if it would even make a difference.

* * *

**OFF THE WIRE: A MUGGLE NEWS REPORT**

April 4th

Travesty struck Canary Warf early this morning when, at precisely 9:30 am, multiple lifts experienced an unexpected—and as yet, still unexplained—malfunction, wherein a total of 28 lifts crashed simultaneously from various heights throughout their respective office buildings.

As of 10:45 this morning, the death count is reported to have reached as high as 23, with around 40 seriously injured and 4 in critical condition.

Investigations are underway—though, there is serious speculation as to where to begin. Police officials are stumped but have been trying to calm the panic by assuring the public that they are doing what they can. So far this has included a network of sweep teams that have, and are continuing to, systematically search through each building involved in the accident. Resources say they have not found any further indications of impending attack.

"We don't know what we're dealing with, here, quite frankly," says a police official on the scene, who declined to be named, as investigations are still pending and updates on the proceedings have not been released to the public. "It isn't a terrorist group, as far as we can tell. There aren't any bombs, there haven't been any threats. This was entirely out of the blue. I wish we could say that we train for things like this, and that we are always prepared to handle this sort of thing. But, as you may or may not have noticed, we're completely dashed. No idea how this happened. To all appearances the damn things look perfectly operational! There is no explanation for this malfunction. I say, we're all completely dashed."

UPDATE, 1:36 pm:

Death count now at 26. No new evidence has been found. All of Canary Warf, and the surrounding area, has been closed off until further notice.

* * *

**POLICE REPORT**  
POSTER FOUND ON DIAGON ALLEY BULLITEN  
(PHOTO ATTACHED)

MISSING:  
Amelia Thomas

Age: 10  
Eyes: Brown  
Hair: Brown  
Height: 4'4''

Last seen on April 21st, 17:30, outside her Grandparents' flat at No. 16 Longridge Road, South Kensington, London.

Any information concerning the whereabouts of Amelia Thomas should be directed either to local authorities, to her parents, Pamela and Roger, or to her brother, Dean.

* * *

**NOTICE FROM THE HEADMASTER**  
GRYFFINDOR COMMON ROOM BULLITEN

Dear students,

Due to recent events a 7:30 pm - 6:30 am curfew is now in place. No student is to leave the castle or step foot on the grounds a moment past sunset. As such, all extracurricular activities have been indefinitely postponed. Yes, this does include Quidditch.

All future Hogsmeade trips have been cancelled until further notice.

Please stay safe, look after each other, and study hard for end of year exams. They will be here sooner than you think!

Albus Dumbledore

* * *

**FROM THE DIARY PAGES OF HERMIONE JANE GRANGER**

April 31st

Dear Diary,

We've only had two Order meetings in the past months, one of which I stormed out of half way through. It's so frustrating! They are doing NOTHING! I have never in my life witnessed such a deplorable exercise in futility. Admittedly, they are making a minute bit of headway in terms of You-Know-Who's whereabouts, except that all everyone seems to be able to do is agree with each other that our best source of information is now in Azkaban. He's the only one who might know, but there is no way of contacting him.

So WHAT NOW, I keep asking—what do we do? Where do we go next? We can't just wait around for the Ministry to lift up their skirts for us. We need to take action! I'm sick of it, sick of all of it. Even McGonagall has ripped the last of my nerves to shreds.

I suppose I do not feel quite as distraught as that one terrible night so many months ago when I believed myself to have been the cause of such an unthinkable, disastrous situation. That night I thought I had... well, killed him. But it's close enough. I feel as though I'm constantly on the verge of doing something stupid. But how can I help it? There is so much talk now of possible execution. Since the growing rate of attacks in the past couple of weeks, public opinion has turned dramatically against the Ministry. Fudge is more worried than ever about an uprising, of being overthrown. He is constantly spinning quotes in the papers and on the radio about plots against the government, and how any perpetrators or supposed traitors will face dire consequences. Those currently in Azkaban are, expectedly, top on the list.

Two executions have already taken place.

I haven't slept for a while. Whenever I do, I have dreadful nightmares. And I walk! Dear God, do I walk. I have been wandering this castle from top to bottom every night in my sleep. Even in my unconscious state, it seems, I am forever restless and searching. Terrified. I don't know what to do.

May 8th

At last, Harry has a plan!

It's more dangerous than I could have ever imagined, but it could work, it could damn well work! I have no idea how we are going to pull this off. I'm scared. It's entirely ludicrous.

But I think I'm ready. I think we can do this. We've got to try.

Harry came by just now to go over last minute details. We have it all laid out. This is it.

We leave tonight!


	26. The Grand Escape Part I

**Chapter Twenty-Six:**

Severus blinked away the sleep from his eyes. It wasn't hard. Any form of sleep had in Azkaban prison was never heavy. With a practiced formality, he got to his feet and methodically checked himself all over, wondering vaguely why he continued to do such an erroneous act every day. As usual, his hands were scraped and bruised, but there was a lump on the back of his head that hadn't been there before and he grimaced as he ran his hand over it. He must have hit his head against the wall at some point during the night, though he did not remember doing so. He shrugged.

As always, Severus then assessed his surroundings. Quite obviously there was a very limited space in which to roam inside his tiny cell—but within days of Severus's occupation of said cell he had soon discovered that every time he woke it was to find himself in a different place than where he initially fell asleep. He also never failed to acquire mysterious injuries during the night—most of which were on his hands and which suggested to him that not only was he sleepwalking, but he must also be beating the walls, maybe shaking the bars—had he been screaming? There was no way to know, but his throat often felt raw upon waking.

For months, now, he had known nothing else. Sleeping, waking, assessing—this was his life—and it was always, always through an ever-increasing haze of unidentifiable pain. He occupied a hellish nightmare, it was nearly unbearable. Unbearable, that is, except for one miraculous, saving grace: Whenever he dreamed, he dreamed. He had never once been prone to night terrors. Not one! Azkaban inmates were always so famed for their dreadful screams in the dark, for losing their minds after reliving the horrors of their own guilt over and over in their subconscious thoughts, mercilessly haunted by the demons of their past whenever they dared close their eyes.

But, Severus, it seemed, was spared this torture. At least, initially. Sleeping had become his solace, not his bane. Whenever he managed to drift out of consciousness (which was very rare; sleep had always been difficult for him, and now it was nearly impossible with so many moans and yells reverberating the walls of his dwelling) he would always find himself somewhere else. He would find himself back in the Pruitt's cottage, with a fire roaring, a light snow pattering against the dark windowpane, and with a sweet-smelling, honey-haired girl at his side as he held her in his arms without any intention of ever letting go. Most surprising of all, they were never surreal or over-dramatic, these dreams. Nothing implausible seemed to take place. This was what gave them such a deep sense of satisfaction, an almost believable comfort and alacrity. It was as though she were really _there_. She would speak to him, argue with him, slap him, kick him, kiss him, embrace him—every moment of it so real, and every moment of it more precious than... anything he'd ever possessed.

He savored those dreams as best he could. He made love to her every chance he got, ravished her, something he had never been able to do in reality. He took her in every room of that cottage—always so powerful, hungry. He gave it everything he had, for, despite their initial resonance, his dreams were growing weaker, getting shorter with each passing day. Despite everything, despite their importance, the sharpness of his feelings began to lose their clarity, their edge. Upon waking, he was soon struggling to recall what he had once felt, but was unable to remember exactly what it was that he searched for. He knew, in theory, how it felt—he remembered how merely the thought of her had excited such feelings within him as to create an almost unbearable distraction of body and mind, so it was all the more frustrating that he was unable to recall those feelings now. He thought of her, and the fire barely even sparked. Soon, nothing happened at all. In a matter of weeks, indifference began to swallow him. He couldn't remember what in the world could have possibly possessed him to be so overcome; he couldn't even be bothered to spare the energy to pursue the answer. What had all the fuss been about? Why so obsessed? Why so lost in her looks and charms—he couldn't even remember them. He could barely even recall the color of her hair. Honey brown, he would say to himself. Honey brown. Honey brown. But it was useless. All he knew now was cold, hunger, anger—bitter reality. Reality.

As the sun set on his eighty-seventh day in Azkaban prison (though he was unaware of the sun's passage, as he had not been awarded a window within this dank, musty cell), he knew fully and absolutely where he was, what his chances were, and as he stood there gazing into what he saw as an endless expanse of lonely misery stretching out before him until the day he died, he found that his only available option was to accept it. On his eighty-seventh day in Azkaban prison, Severus let go of his dreams. He pulled that ridiculous image of Hermione Granger out of the back of his mind with an almighty yank, and, as unceremoniously as he could, dropped it altogether, resolved never to think of her again. It was so much better to get it over and done with all at once, rather than let it fester and wane, disappear in that slow, painful way. Like a wasting disease.

Severus stretched and then leaned against the wall of his cell, his knees already beginning to tremble. He was too tired to stand up for very long—he was very weak. Most of his time was spent sprawled out on the floor, or curled up in the corner. He'd left his dignity at the doorstep long ago, and so had no more qualms about betraying his weakness.

Of course, who was there for him to betray his weakness to, anyway? The Dementors. No one.

As Severus let go control over his muscles and allowed himself to sink against the wall as heavy and immovable as though he had been cemented there, he thought again about all the information he knew but could not share. Travers. Travers had knowledge of the Dark Lord's whereabouts and status—his location, how many Death Eaters were still under his control—and these were all things that Severus now knew as well. If only he could _somehow_convey to the Order this information, that would be enough to go on, to finally get this ultimate battle underway. If only he could let them know—This was the time to strike! The Dark Lord was distracted, frustrated; his minions were running rampant through Britain, attacking Muggles and causing havoc without intelligence or direction. Many of them had already been caught by the Ministry due to the foolishness of their actions, which Severus could damn well attest to, because they were often marched directly past his cell when they arrived.

It was in those moments, as their hooded eyes and gnashing teeth bore down on him as they passed, that he realized how surrounded he was by enemies, how dearly those on both sides of his prison walls wanted him dead. He had no allies! None. Any second if a Dementor decided to swoop down upon him and suck out his soul for no authoritative reason, there wasn't anyone to give a damn! Not the Ministry, not the Wizarding population, not the Death Eaters (and certainly not their Master). Dumbledore would mourn him, Severus thought. Perhaps. But such was his life and the way he lived it, that Severus was never, _never _entirely sure that this pledge of friendship was out of true devotion to him as a person, or simply to him as a spy. Or for some other reason he had yet to uncover.

But Hermione Granger would care, wouldn't she? He didn't know, quite frankly. It struck him that he could never truly be sure—how could he? She was long gone from his life now and he had heard nothing from anyone for so long. How was he to know she hadn't already shut him from her mind (like he had tried to do with her) and moved on with her life? Perhaps she was already happily ensconced in the arms of that harebrained Weasley. Smiling. Laughing. Perhaps she had already forgotten him.

Certainly the Order seemed to have done so. Those people, that "devoted" group of comrades he had so pledged his life to help and protect had simply left him here to rot. He might as well be dead, honestly. …Except for the fact that _he knew where Voldemort was_. He knew where to go and how to strike, and yet it was all for naught!

If only he could tell his story. If only there was someone to tell his story to. Someone to believe him. It wasn't possible, but he wanted to allow himself the hope that it was.

Why hadn't Dumbledore sent word? Why had there been… _nothing_… for so long? Quite obviously Severus didn't expect them all to gear up, suit up, and storm the prison, winning him back his freedom in a blaze of triumphant glory—but was lifting a finger in his defense entirely out of line?

Severus Snape did not mind being hated. He minded being ignored.

It was a very long and painful hour before sleep finally claimed him again—even then it was still weak and restless. He felt removed from his body enough for time to pass quickly, but he was every second aware of where he was. The hard stone against his side and his shoulder and his cheek, the deeply profound frigidness in the air, the snorts and sniffles coming from the cell next to his, the screams raining down from some poor bastard on the floor above, the pitter-patter of… paws…

Severus jerked fully awake as something small and wet touched him abruptly on the tip of his nose. It was another nose, an animal's nose.

It was very dark. The only light to see by came from the torches hanging somewhere on the walls outside his cell. But his eyes had long become accustomed to his environment, so when he found himself face to face with his new visitor, he knew precisely, immediately who it was.

A loud pounding developed in his ears, like drumbeats, and all at once, the world came to a screeching, shuddering, bone jarring halt. As the breath left his lungs, he managed to gasp out one word:

"_Granger_..."

Severus felt his heart all but explode, so overwhelmed with unfamiliar emotions, sharp, intense. He was instantly trembling, sick with wonder and apprehension. A heavy red haze had begun to form somewhere behind his eyes. "Granger, what the _hell _are you—"

Granger made a sharp hissing sound and Severus instantly snapped his mouth shut, the red haze growing stronger than ever. He realized at once that the haze was fear.

Hearing the unmistakable swish of cloaks, Severus then felt the inevitable pain in his gut increase double fold as two hooded Dementors glided as smooth as glass into view outside the bars of his cage, the edge of their garments sweeping lightly over the stone floor. One continued forward out of sight, but the other hung back, looming, quiet and ominous by the padlocked door, it's breath rattling.

Granger sat still as stone close beside Severus's right elbow. Severus averted his eyes from the Dementor, using his peripheral vision to keep track of its movements as it turned to look at him. He felt his heart beating so strongly inside his chest, his veins pulsing wildly with hot, thick, living blood through every inch of his body. He tried to calm himself—the Dementor was sensing his excitement. It was curious, intrigued. It must have felt his emotions and undoubtedly it hungered greedily for them. After all, most of the captives it currently guarded were, at best, half dead already, therefore offering poor fodder for a meal. Then, of course, there was the presence of a new soul in the room that had piqued the Dementor's interest… Surely that was not so uncommon, Severus tried to reason. Azkaban had rats a plenty, and a rabbit was not so much bigger than that…

Severus got hold of himself. It had been a long time since he had last needed to do so, but Severus knew how to handle this. He had spent every waking moment in the Dark Lord's presence under similar peril; the key was to keep it secret. Now, just as he had then, he bent every ounce of will he possessed into wiping clean his thoughts, banishing all notion or awareness of Granger's arrival from his head, slowing down his heart rate and allow only that dull, vacant, endless despair to once again fill his mind and soul.

The Dementor took in one more enormous, wheezing breath, paused, and then glided away—silent as snow on a winter's night.

But it didn't go far, maybe only a few cells down, for the frosty fear it emanated had not entirely receded.

Severus turned his head a fraction of an inch to stare down at Granger's small, furry silhouette. His eyes were wide and unblinking, his jaw clenched so tightly he felt like his teeth might shatter. _Alright, then_, he thought wildly. _Alright. No talking. No talking. What is she doing here? How did she get here? WHAT THE HELL IS SHE DOING HERE?_

The silence surrounding them was deafening, oppressive. As close as she was, Severus could just barely hear her breathing. It was rapid, erratic, short, yet oh so quiet. She was terrified.

(Which was all well and good because he damn well felt the same!)

Neither of them moved for several long moments, aware all the time of the nearby Dementor and what possible terror may await them if they were found out. Then, very sharply, very deliberately, Granger shook her head from side to side. She stopped and stared at him through the darkness.

Severus stared back, his pulse beginning to quicken again. What did she want? What was she trying to say to him? What the _bloody hell _could she—

Again, Granger shook her head, more firmly this time, and then stared at him once more, her big golden eyes wide and shining, telling him that what she was doing was deliberate, telling him to pay attention.

Her head, he thought. Something about her head. Why does she keep shaking her head? What did he need to know about…

And then he understood.

Her mind. She meant her _mind_. She wanted him to use Legilimency!

Brilliant girl!

At once Severus crouched down on the ground as low as he could, bracing himself firmly with both palms on the stone floor for balance. The important thing about wandless Legilimency was to first establish a strong foundation, a strong connection to the outside world and to yourself in connection to that world—or else it was all too easy to lose yourself in another's thoughts, perhaps indefinitely.

Severus gave her no warning, there was no time. He uttered no sound or spell, but instead, in the flick of an instant, dove ruthlessly, without restraint, deep into her wide open mind.

Immediately, Severus felt only one overwhelming emotion: Blind terror.

NO TIME! he could hear her screaming. NO TIME! NO TIME AT ALL! ONLY A FEW SECONDS! THE GUARDS ARE COMING! THEY'LL FIND ME! THEY'LL FIND ME!

The pit of Severus's stomach fell away and he lost control for the briefest of moments, returning back to his own body.

Ever since Black's escape four years previously, in addition to the Dementors, the Ministry now employed trained Wizard guards to watch over select floors of Azkaban prison. These guards were, of course, protected around the clock by strong, unyielding Patronuses, and so their jobs were not necessarily dangerous or demanding—but they were meticulous sons of bitches, and did their jobs well. They were always keeping a close eye on their most loathed prisoners. Severus, suffice it to say, was very high on that list, which meant that he was "checked on" almost every hour on the hour to ensure that he hadn't somehow managed to escape—or even if he did, that the alarm was raised immediately.

Granger squeaked anxiously, jolting Severus back into action. He once more tore into Granger's thoughts, merciless in his efforts to understand. But it was far too chaotic, confusing. Every time he somewhat managed to grab something, it slipped away. It was like he was trying to grab water with his fist. She didn't know what to offer him, her thoughts were in too many different places at once. They were getting nowhere!

Severus took a deep breath. _Give me a picture_, he told her, as calmly as he could manage. _We don't have time to go through it all step by step, I don't have time to look around, you're just going to have to put it all together for me. Give me a picture—the whole picture. You understand? The whole picture. Do it now!_

She couldn't do it.

Hard though she tried, Severus could feel her falling ever faster into frustrated disarray. Such a feat would have been difficult in prime conditions anyway—but here, in the throes of panic and danger, it was near to impossible.

_Okay, Granger, that's enough, that's enough—we'll have to do it another way. Brace yourself. You won't like this_…

And then, as quickly as he could, Severus mentally threw out his arms and swept everything, all at once, in one enormous collective heap, from her mind and into his. Even braced as he was against the ground, Severus swayed dangerously on all fours. Granger let out a whimper, hear ears twitching wildly. But a moment later it was over. Severus blinked. He knew the entire plan now, all of it, the whole picture. It took a moment for him to sort it out amidst the whirling threads of Granger's thoughts, but he worked quickly, and he didn't let his anxiety overtake him.

Then his head was clear, and he knew what to do. Severus reached out and slipped a necklace from around Granger's head, up over her ears, and then tucked it as far into his sleeve as he could. Hanging upon the necklace was a small pouch containing within it two bottles of freshly brewed polyjuice potion. It was imperative they stayed hidden. He would need them later.

Severus jumped as a loud metallic clang announced the opening of a door somewhere down the cellblock. This was followed immediately by several footsteps and the murmur of voices.

GO! Severus yelled into Granger's mind, his muscles tight, his arms screaming to enfold her in his protection rather than send her out once again into the world so defenseless and alone. I UNDERSTAND WHAT TO DO! I'LL BE READY FOR YOU, NOW GO! RUN! RUN!

Granger paused for only the merest fraction of a second, with her front paw raised in preparation to flee, her honey hazel eyes boring into his, bright and feverish with such fear and affection for him it simply made him ache.

_My God_, he thought to himself, so struck was he by the magnitude of graceful determination pent up in that one little body.

_My God_.

How he admired her.

And then, with just a flicker of whiskers and a flash of her white cotton tail, Hermione Granger was gone—through the gap in the bars of his cell and down the hall, past the hovering Dementor, as fast as her four paws could carry her.

Breathing heavily, heart hammering, shaking from head to toe, Severus once more curled up on the stone floor, his arms cradled against his chest, feeling the pressure of the tiny pouch tucked inside his sleeve and preparing himself. Preparing to wait. Wait for morning. Wait for his grand escape.


	27. The Grand Escape Part II

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**:

_27 Days ago…_

Hermione squinted through the darkness as Harry slipped the invisibility cloak off their shoulders and stepped into the cave. The rain was coming down in torrents, icy cold. With the wind at her back, Hermione could feel the stinging pinpricks of water against her calves. She walked forward a few steps until she was out of range of the pelting raindrops and then she sank to the ground, shivering.

This was not what she had signed up for. Harry had lied to her. He said that he had a plan—and, of course, he thought he did, in his own little Harry way. But what Harry had really had was an _idea_, not a plan. Hermione had made it a plan. Like she always did.

Though, truly, in the end, the fact that they had a plan at all was what counted, and so there was hardly any use in ruminating on past frustrations; bitterness was not a helpful emotion in times such as these, and they had a lot of work still to do.

Hermione unslung the bag from around her shoulders and set it on the ground in front of her, careful not to knock around its fragile contents. She unzipped it and began to pull out the different assortments of glass jars and bottles, checking first to make certain that none of them had cracked or come uncorked, and then she arranged them carefully, one by one, against the rock wall at her side.

Meanwhile, Harry assembled a rudimentary ring of stones on the ground a little ways deeper into the cave and conjured a warm fire in the center of it. He stared blankly for a moment, his gaze deep, unblinking, so drawn was he in that moment by the flickering purple flames. For one wild moment, Harry imagined Sirius's head was somehow materializing right there before him, cheeks rough with stubble, hair clean but unkempt, smile lopsided, eyes warm, concerned. An instant later, Hermione set a long-necked bottle on an uneven patch of stone and it fell sideways against the row of glass containers, clinking loudly.

Harry shook his head. Work to do.

Now that the fire was started, Harry began to set up the cauldron. It was bigger than the ones he was used to using in class so it took a bit longer to figure out how to assemble the rod iron frame on which he was going to place this massive object. They had taken the cauldron from Snape's laboratory—along with an entire duffle-bag full of ingredients—and with a clever trick from Hermione that had shrunk both cauldron and bag temporarily to the size of acorns, they had smuggled their stolen goods from Hogwarts castle and made their way through Hogsmeade to this little cave, well into the woods on the far side of town. And here they intended to remain for the entirety of the coming month.

Once Harry had assembled the iron frame and set the cauldron on top of it with a quick swish of his wand and a muttered _Leviosa_ charm, he turned to Hermione. She was standing with her hands on her hips, surveying the long line of assorted ingredients she had just finished arranging.

"Is that everything?" Harry asked, not expecting her to answer.

"Almost," she replied.

Harry did a slight double-take. "I… what? Sorry, I thought we had everything." He looked very tired. "Have we left something behind?"

"Of course not, but—"

"What could we have missed?"

"We didn't miss anything, Harry. I just, well I added a new ingredient last night, and it's not one we can find at Hogwarts."

"What do you mean you added a new ingredient? That spell is, what, hundreds of years old. I mean, you can't do that… can you?"

"Of course I—Have a bit of faith in me, would you?" she retorted testily. "If I say I have, I have. Anyway, it's only a small adjustment, nothing dramatic."

"What for?"

"I believe I've found a way of making it stronger... or rather, making the effects last longer."

"Really?"

"Obviously I haven't had time to experiment with it properly, but, just guessing, I would say I could push it into at least four or five hours instead of the usual one."

Harry's eyes lit up. "You're joking! That's _brilliant_. How are you going to do it? What ingredients are you going to add?"

Hands still on her hips, Hermione gave him sideways look and said quite promptly, "Firewhiskey. Lots and lots of it."

Harry's face remained vacant for a long moment before he finally seemed to register her response. He cleared his throat, looking skeptical. "Er… OK… Well… I mean… I don't really think—"

"Look," she snapped, "you don't have to believe me or anything, but I'm a pretty clever witch when I need to be, Harry, and I know what I'm doing. So you can wipe that stupid look off your face and, I don't know, wish me luck or something." The rain and the cold were making her far more irritable than was probably necessary—on top of which she was still quite peeved about having to play mommy yet again to Harry's crazy not-even-a-plan "plan". She ran her hands through her hair and then bent down to pick up the empty duffle bag. "I have to get going now so that we can begin brewing tonight. Firewhiskey is ingredient number one and we're going to need buckets of it."

Harry felt stunned; Hermione rarely ever snapped at him like this, particularly without warning. "W-wait a second. Hey! Where the bloody hell are you going?"

Hermione had retrieved the invisibility cloak again and was all but disappeared beneath it. "I'm going into Hogsmeade," said her floating head. "I feel horrid about it, but the Three Broomsticks is the only place within a hundred miles that has enough firewhiskey for what I've got planned—and since we obviously can't walk up to the bar and order it ourselves, I am going to have to steal it. I've got a few dozen galleons that I'll leave on the counter or something, but feel free to contribute too if you've got some—in fact, I know you've got some, so hand them over. I don't like the idea of leaving Madam Rosmerta with nothing. She works hard, it isn't fair."

Harry, still three blinks shy of flabbergasted, shook his head. "Wait. No."

Hermione's eyebrows raised dangerously high. "No?" she repeated slowly.

"I mean—no, yes, I agree with paying the galleons—sure, that's fair, yes." He delved into his pocket and handed Hermione several gold coins. "But—well, obviously I think I should be the one stealing things, not you."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Why _not_ me?"

"Because."

"Oh, yes, flawless reasoning, Harry, as always."

"We'll both go."

"That's stupid. One person has got to stay here and watch our camp—not to mention, a second body under this cloak will only get in the way. What about the duffle bag? For heaven's sake, why send two when one can do it better?"

"Alright—so then, you stay and I'll go."

"No you won't, Harry."

"I—"

"Do you know how much firewhiskey we need?"

"No, but—"

"Do you know what else would be a viable alternative if there isn't enough? Or if we can't get at it somehow?"

"Well, no, but you could—"

"Are you an unregistered animagus?"

"…No."

With that, Hermione flipped up the hood of the invisibility cloak and completely disappeared from view. "I'm going," echoed her voice through the cave, and then Harry watched as the faint outline of her hunched figure trotted out into the rain.

He gave a dark, sullen sigh and then turned back to tend the fire. Even though, as he knew very well, a magic fire hardly had any need of tending.

* * *

Hermione's feet slipped, and for the second time in two minutes she nearly took a dive head first down the wooded slope. Thankfully, she was able to snatch a tree branch and rescue herself from disaster, but her heart was thudding hard in her chest and she was already well out of breath.

_Careful, Granger_, said a voice in her head. It took a moment before she realized whose voice it was. _Stuff it_, she thought back—but, of course, had that been the real Snape giving her snide advice, she would have found it the most welcoming sound in the world. She shook her head.

_Don't think about that now. Still several more steps to go until then. A month at least, and a million and a half things I haven't the faintest clue how I'm going to accomplish._

Another fifteen minutes of tramping delicately through the foliage and Hermione at last emerged onto a muddy back road that led around the southeast perimeter of Hogsmeade. Wasting no time, she paused only a moment to readjust the strap of her bag and then took off at a jog down the path. A part of her wished that she had let Harry do this after all, for she was woefully out of shape—not to mention weary to the bone from months of poor sleep and skipped dinners. Harry was naturally athletic. It would have been a breeze for him.

However, all of the things she had said back in the cave were still true. She knew more than he did, she was smaller, she had mastered more spells, and, quite frankly, Harry always had a knack for getting himself into trouble doing even the simplest of tasks. All in all, Hermione was much more likely to pull it off… that is, if she ever managed to catch her sodding breath again.

Regardless of the stitch in her side, Hermione pressed on, resting only the few times she encountered other people on the road and had to hide herself in the shadow of a garden shed or behind patio furniture. (She was in the residential portion of Hogsmeade). Ever so gradually, small houses gave way to bigger houses, then to shops, then to restaurants, then Hermione at last found herself on the main drag next to Zonko's Joke Shop, which, judging by the dark windows, had obviously been closed for the night.

She hoped the Three Broomsticks was still open, otherwise she would never get in; the security spells were too advance, and she couldn't use her wand besides. For, if Hermione had learned anything from her long months on the run with her Potions professor, it was that unlicensed wand magic was the surest thing to get her found by those she would most like to avoid.

The old saying 'careful what you wish for' came immediately to mind when Hermione rounded a corner and found herself facing a pub that was not only open, but packed wall to wall with chilled but sociable locals looking to warm themselves with a pint of Madam Rosmerta's famous butterbeer. _Bugger_, she thought. This was going to be even more difficult than she imagined. She shrugged internally. _Oh well, no use standing here in the snow. Let's get this over with…_

Hermione hadn't made it two steps into the Three Broomsticks before someone's foot caught the edge of the invisibility cloak and she stumbled hard into a squat, portly man at her side. The man, who must not have been very stable to begin with, crashed spectacularly to the ground, taking a nearby table with him and the five full pints of frothing liquid that had been sitting upon it.

The surrounding crowd let out several "ooooh's" of sympathy, a few of them laughed, and two of them—the two who had been sitting at the table that had just recently been overturned—let out a stream of curses.

Hermione held her breath. Was she caught already? Would they wonder who had caused the accident? Surely the man she knocked into would jump to his feet at any moment and cry out that some invisible person had assaulted him and that they should all start searching the pub immediately for this despicable culprit! If this happened, there was absolutely nowhere for Hermione to run. She was surrounded.

But the man simply rolled over on the ground, groaning loudly, as a cherry-faced woman with plump cheeks and a generous backside stooped down to help him to his feet.

"Come on, Bernard, you old drunkard," she guffawed kindly. "Say your apologies to the nice gentlemen and buy them a fresh round. What were you havin' there, gents? Alright, Bernard, that's it, on your feet. I'm sorry, Sugar Ale was it? That's right, Bernard, did you hear that? A round of Ale, and you say you're sorry now. Go on, then, you great buffoon."

Bernard, who had finally, laboriously, made it to his feet (though he was still swaying quite dramatically), mopped his enormous sideburns with a sleeve. They had soaked up a significant portion of spilled ale as he had rolled around on the floor. Bernard paused only to let out an enormous belch, and then he bellowed a good-natured apology to the two men, who, in turn, laughed and clapped Bernard on the shoulders, nearly sending him to the floor again.

"There you are!" exclaimed the rosy faced woman, as she signaled for the waitress. "A round of Sugar Ales, f'you please, missy!"

Hermione let herself relax a bit. Had this not been such a serious situation, she may have found the whole scene quite amusing—but, as it were, she had a very serious mission to complete, and she must not allow anything to distract her from it.

A further ten very loud, yet thankfully uneventful, minutes passed, and Hermione at last managed to squeeze her way to the back of the pub, searching all the while for a door that might lead her to the basement, or at the very least some sort of storage closet. _Oh, well, alright then_, she thought, when she turned to face a wall on her left and found the words STORAGE CLOSET in big block letters nearly three inches from her nose. That was…easy.

Carefully, she reached out and tried the handle. It was open.

_Don't jinx yourself Hermione—stay alert! Any number of things could still go horribly wrong…_

She waited diligently until she was as sure as she would ever be that no one was watching her, and then, quick as a blink, she opened the door just wide enough for her to fit through, and slipped inside.

It was dark. Which, honestly, she had expected—yet "lumos" was half way out of her mouth before she bit it back and stuffed her wand back into her belt again. _Stupid! Stupid! For pity's sake, you're worse than Bernard!_

Trembling slightly with her near misstep, Hermione stopped for a moment and considered her next move. _This is really quite pathetic, Hermione. Ha, ha. Bravo._ Of all the things she had prepared for, of all the things she had successfully anticipated, the difficulty of conjuring a light had never even crossed her mind.

The only light to see by was a thin, glowing ribbon coming from the crack beneath the door. Was there no other way? Apparently not. She was running out of time, this would just have to do.

So, painfully slowly, taking every possible care, Hermione tip-toed to the back of the closet (it was a rather large closet, unfortunately) and began to feel around on the ground for a promising bottle. Her hand found a gridded crate. She slipped her fingers inside it and pulled out a heavy glass bottle by its neck. Then she crept back to the door, knelt down, and attempted to examine the label against the feeble light.

Nope. Vegetable Oil. Damn.

She returned the offending jar to its crate, and then groped around at her feet for the next one. This time, the bottle was rounded with a short neck. She took it back to the door and peered closely at the label.

Shit. Olives.

It was a very slow process.

But Hermione continued diligently to repeat it, every time convincing herself, _alright, the next one. The next one. Has to be it. Has to be..._

Once, the door flew unexpectedly open, just when Hermione was replacing a jar of spiced carrot juice on its shelf and she nearly dropped it, forgetting for a moment that she was still under the invisibility cloak.

So many things could have gone wrong in that moment—but someone somewhere must have been looking out for her, because none of them did.

Said door-opener turned out to be a very surly looking waiter with a thick, dark mustache and squinty eyes. He could have opened the door when Hermione was in the front of the closet instead of the back. He could have looked up and noticed the gallon of spiced carrot juice floating apparently unaided in midair, instead of casting his gaze to the floor in search of a dustpan. And, worst of all, he could have been seeking something on the very back shelf, which would have meant that there was no feasible way Hermione could have avoided being caught. But the waiter merely opened the door, stooped down, picked up the dustpan, and left. It was all over in less than a second. And…

_Bullocks FUCKING DAMMIT!_

She had been too terrified to utilize that moment of full illumination to look around the room and determine where the firewhiskey was kept!

_Don't look now, Granger. It appears Longbottom has gained a new colleague in the fine art of colossal ineptitude._

Snape again! Oh, honestly. That man. She had forgotten how abrasive the old bugger could be… _in your own head for Christ's sake, you deranged little twit!_ she berated herself. _Stop talking to yourself! Get this done!_

Hermione set the spiced carrot juice down on the shelf and moved on to shelf above it, which held a few rows of promising-feeling bottles.

At last, at last, at long last—after a grueling half hour in the dank, musty dark, tip-toeing back and forth, kneeling up and down what felt like a thousand times, she saw the faint outline of "FIREWHI" imprinted on the rounded glass in her hands. Breathless with joy, she rotated it, just to make sure—then she saw the "SKY" and suppressed a hoot of triumph. She set down the duffle bag on the ground, put the firewhisky delicately inside it, and then returned to the last shelf she had touched.

All in all, she was able to fit a full eight handles of amber liquid in her bag, before she zipped it up, heaved it (carefully!) onto her shoulder, left her modest pile of galleons on a nearby crate, held her breath, and then squeezed out the door into the bright lights of the pub.

Her eyes were dazzled for a moment, after spending so much time in the dark, but once her vision adapted, she blinked once and her heart took a gigantic leap into her throat. A twisted old hag (wearing, of all things, a lime green turban) sat with her jewel-encrusted hands resting on the bar. And she was staring right at Hermione… or, rather, she was staring at the closet door, which had, to all appearances, just opened itself.

_Oh... my god. Oh my god. ohmygodohmygodohmy—_

"Wretched door!"

Hermione had just enough sense to throw herself against the opposite wall of the hallway in which she had just emerged, when Madam Rosmerta herself came busting out of another set of doors (that, Hermione gathered, must have led to the kitchens), and barreled down the hall to slam the storage closet closed again.

Rosmerta noticed the hag looking at her and gestured casually to the closet with her thumb. "I've had Mikey work on those hinges I don't know how many times, but I tell you, one gust of wind at just the right moment and—" she snapped. "There it goes! _Pain_ the arse ruddy door, I'm _telling_ you!"

With another loud scoff of frustration, Rosmerta stomped off into the crowd towards a rowdy group of wizards. They were lobbing pumpkin seeds at an enormous, orange-haired troll two tables away, perhaps looking to start a fight, and who, Hermione quite accurately guessed, were about to receive a very swift and uproarious telling-off from the lady of the establishment.

Hermione looked back at the hag in the green turban, expecting her to have returned to sipping whatever glowing, steaming concoction she had bubbling away in her goblet—but the hag had not removed her eyes from the hallway where Hermione currently stood. She was obviously not convinced by Madam Rosmerta's timely tirade.

_Best move on, then,_ Hermione told herself gently. _Don't get excited. Even if she suspects something, who is she going to tell? What's the worst she could do?_

Those questions were meant to set her at ease; in reality, all they did was set her to thinking of all of the twisted, horrible things that mysterious old hags in wizard bars could do to a Muggleborn such as herself.

_Just to be safe, let's walk this way…_

Hermione hedged around the corner, keeping the duffle bag at all times pressed tightly to her body, and inched her way towards the east side of the pub. Her plan was to simply follow the wall all the way around. But there were far too many people, tables, and chairs leaning against it, and so she was forced to deviate from her course.

_Oh, bloody hell!_ Hermione dropped to the ground as the surly, mustached waiter who had nearly caught her earlier came whisking by carrying two serving trays laden with pints of butterbeer—one of which was on course to colliding with the side of Hermione's head if she hadn't ducked in time.

Unfortunately, someone else had not ducked in time, and there was an almighty crash for the second time that night, as six full pints of butterbeer clattered to the floor amid a symphony of yells, hoots, and profanity.

Quick as a flash, Hermione scrambled underneath the nearest table and hugged her knees to her chest, careful to avoid what turned out to be four different pairs of legs on all sides of her.

"Ouch. Someone's going to have a headache in the morning."

"You mean the bloke on the floor, or the poor bastard who's cleaning up his mess?"

"Too right, good point. Both of them, then, I wager."

"Ouch, right in the nose! Jolly bad luck."

"You're idiots. All of you."

"Of course we are."

"Who said we weren't?"

"Not I."

"You wouldn't."

"Honestly."

"Anyone fancy another round?"

"Next time, I'm afraid, I'm off."

The legs nearest to Hermione—on her right—stood up.

"Got to finish assembling this portfolio for Miss"—the word 'Miss' was said with a clear disdain—"Dubblepee so that I can hand it in first thing tomorrow, bright fuckin' early. No, no, Candy, dear—I'll get the tab. Or, I should say, the Daily Prophet will get the tab. Business write-off, of course."

"Pardon me, Dylan, but you mean to say you were working all this time?"

"Naturally! Interviewing the locals, obviously. Dubblepee loves to hear the opinions of common folk."

"Oh, thanks."

"Opinions on what? The large breasted woman at the next table?"

"Touché, Rutherford. Now, really, do you want me to pay or not?"

"Absolutely I do!"

"Well alright then."

At last, a window of opportunity opened up just as the man who was standing—Dylan, Hermione gathered (where had she heard that name recently?)—slid back his chair and stepped away. She made a break for it, counting on the surrounding chatter to mask any noise that her duffle bag might make as the bottles inside it clanked around.

Half a moment later, her head began slowly to wind itself up into overdrive; she knew that man! Somehow, that name Dylan sounded familiar—like she had come across it recently, and repeatedly. It bothered her that she couldn't nail him down, because he might be exactly whom she was looking for. Obviously he worked for The Daily Prophet, which made sense, as she had certainly read that rubbish paper enough in the past few months to have come across every journalist and editor's name a thousand times over. But he also mentioned his boss—or someone he worked for, someone who needed a portfolio from him first thing in the morning. So he wasn't a top writer, he was a flunky—but a flunky could be just who she needed. He was a fact gatherer, perhaps; he interviewed people. That was important, very important—she could use that. But whom did he work for?

_Dubblepee. Dubblepee._ Hermione turned the name over and over in her mind as she wound her way carefully out the door and onto the street. She was held up briefly when she had to fight her way past a necking couple and, next to them, an enchanted lamppost that kept swaying back and forth to what sounded like a drunken man's recording of a Frank Sinatra song. Once she had found her way back to Zonko's and the familiar pathway that lead around Hogsmeade, her escape seemed to take no time at all. Her mind was far too occupied to register her jogging and how tired it made her.

What in the hell kind of a name was "Dubblepee" anyway? She had never heard that. Never. _Dubblepee. Dubblepee. What does that mean? Dubblepee. Dubble... pee. Dubble… Double… Double? Yes! Double! That's it! P not pee! Double P! Two P's! Penny Paige! He works for that weasel faced harlot Penny Paige!_

Hermione did a crazy little jig of triumph before she vaulted over a bush and began to climb back up the wooded slope. This was perfect! This was exactly, _precisely_ what they needed!

* * *

"Harry! Harry!"

Hermione threw off the invisibility cloak and slid the duffle bag onto the ground next to the other ingredients as Harry emerged from the shadows in the rear of the cave. He looked understandably anxious.

"What is it? What?"

With no warning, Hermione threw her arms around him and gave him a long, fierce hug. Then she pulled back, her eyes sparkling. "I have an idea!"

Harry was thunderstruck. "But… but we've already got an idea."

Hermione gave him a clever smile. "I have a better one."

"What? How? What about?"

"I'll tell you! But let's get to work, alright? There's a lot to do and a lot to plan, and I don't even know where her office is!"

"Whose office?"

Hermione grabbed two full handles of firewhisky out of her bag and passed them to Harry for him to open. She pointed to the cauldron. "You pour. I'll talk."

He nodded. "You got it."

* * *

It was a full twelve days before Harry and Hermione were able to find out where Penny Paige's office was, and it was another five before they realized how impossible it was going to be to actually _find_ it.

It turned out that the Daily Prophet in fact had two headquarters—one was well known and larger than the other, residing somewhere in Diagon Alley (Hermione had passed it many, many times, and yet she never thought once she would need to remember its exact location)—but the other, the most relative one in this case, as it housed the offices of its senior and most well-paid employees (of whom was included the notorious Penny Paige), was rumored to reside somewhere in the Muggle borough of Bloomsbury in London. But its origins were founded by a notoriously secret literary society, and, to this day, the secret was very well kept.

Finally, running out of time, anxious to secure this final piece to Hermione's intricate plan, they gave up on locating Penny's office and instead decided to take up a slightly more questionable, and subsequently riskier, course of action.

The final days of Harry and Hermione's stakeout in the cave, before the new and improved polyjuice potion was completed, happened thusly:

Hermione drafted a letter to Dylan Hadley—who, it turned out, did indeed work for Penny Paige as her personal assistant. In the letter, Hermione disguised herself as a Hogwarts student named Alice Benson (Hufflepuff, second year), who had something scandalous to say about her Headmaster, wanted nothing more than to blab it all to the Daily Prophet, and that she could meet Mr. Hadley for an interview two days hence under the large magnolia tree near the Shrieking Shack.

Dylan Hadley responded first thing the next morning with his affirmation, and Hermione and Harry began to feel the tight chord of anxiety wrapped around their necks loosen ever so slightly. But they weren't breathing easy yet—they had only seven more days before the full extent of their plans would be put into action, and they would need most of that time for travel; it was important they get this done as soon as possible (even two days was stretching it).

At last, the hour of the interview arrived. Hermione, in rabbit form, and Harry, beneath the invisibility cloak, waited impatiently for the man to show. It was unfortunate that Hermione had never actually seen Dylan's face, and so would not be able to tell whether or not the real Dylan showed up. Though it was not much of a risk, strictly speaking, for it was very unlikely that anyone who was not Dylan Hadley would have any conceivable reason for locating themselves beneath this exact tree a few hundred yards away from the most haunted house in Britain at the exact time Hermione had specified in her letter.

Thankfully, Dylan had the courtesy to show up right on time (perhaps he realized that twelve year-old girls could be rather flighty, and that Alice might turn tail and leave if her interviewer did not appear precisely when he said he would). Dylan was a slim man, with mousey brown hair and a peculiar nose. As he settled himself against the trunk of the tree to wait, looking at his watch with a puzzled, slightly irritated expression, Hermione took a deep breath, and emerged.

With a running mantra of, _you're a rabbit, act like a rabbit, you're a rabbit, act like a rabbit_, she hopped cautiously out from beneath a bush and began to nibble at the grass inches from Dylan's shoes.

This had the desired effect; with a hushed, "Well, hello there," Dylan leaned down to get a better look at what he undoubtedly perceived as perhaps the friendliest wild rabbit on the face of the earth. Dylan's face loomed so near, Hermione could very well count his nose hairs. She froze, her heart pitter-pattering nervously, her animal instincts screaming at her to run the opposite direction. But her wizard instincts reminded her what she was there to do, and she allowed Dylan to reach out with a hand in order to stroke one of her long ears. In response, she flicked that ear and then the other as well. This was the signal for Harry to get ready. A branch from a nearby bush waved back and forth. Hermione was too nervous to tell if it was Harry or simply the wind. At that point, there was no way to know if Harry was prepared or not, so Hermione simply trusted that he was, and proceeded.

Just as Dylan got close enough, Hermione lunged, sinking her teeth into his outstretched palm, and at that exact moment, Harry supposedly scissored a large chunk of Dylan's hair and tucked it away in his pocket—but there was no way to know!

The whole thing was over in a flash. Before Dylan had barely finished his first cry of pain, Hermione released her hold on his hand and bolted away—under the brush, through the woods, and didn't stop until she had made it all the way back to the cave on the other side of Hogsmeade.

Harry did not make it back until ten minutes later (he had actually had to jog the distance). He arrived smiling, and showed Hermione the hair, at which point, Hermione squealed with triumph, and gave her friend another strong-armed, enthusiastic hug.

However, bells of alarm were, as always, still ringing in the back of their heads, and they found the happiness of their victory evaporate within moments. Only one more week before the grand escape! With that in mind, Hermione spent the following two hours completing the final touches to the bubbling cauldron. Once it was complete, she filled four vials full to the brim, stoppered them, and then put them into a small pouch with Dylan's hair. Then they packed up their things (they left most of the ingredients in the cave, thinking they may come back and retrieve them at a later date if all went well), and ducked once more beneath the invisibility cloak.

Then it was back to Hogwarts.

Using the Marauder's Map, they negotiated their way through the grounds—it was late evening at this point, which meant everyone was in the grand hall for dinner. They had traversed this path many times, yet Hogwarts grounds always seemed foreign, somehow, Hermione thought, unpopulated and under the soft glow of moonlight.

Quietly as they could, they snuck into the Gryffindor's locker room (there was a simple spell protecting it, but Harry knew the password), where Harry retrieved his Firebolt, and Hermione, with a whispered apology, took Ron's Cleansweep.

Then, with much difficulty, they tucked all of this back beneath the cloak—no doubt there was a sizable portion of their feet and ankles showing, but, due to Dumbledore's recent curfew, there was no one around to notice—trotted back across the grounds, and then hiked a short ways into the Forbidden Rorest. There, they mounted up, Harry stowed the cloak away in his bag, and they took to the sky.

Hermione was glad she had practiced her flying. It was a rough night.

They arrived on a deserted street a few blocks away from the Muggle entrance to the Ministry of Magic just a few minutes before daybreak. Tired but on fire with nervous energy, they found an out of the way place—down a dark alley, beneath some stairs, behind a wooden crate—where they placed the duffle bag and their two brooms. Hermione kept only a small bundle of clothing that she tucked beneath her arm. Then, just to be extra safe, they carefully laid the invisibility cloak over the whole lot. Harry would retrieve it later.

With an hour to kill until the Azkaban Office in the Ministry was officially open—and perhaps another hour until people actually began to show up there, which seemed to Hermione to be a safer, less suspicious bet—they seated themselves at a Muggle pub and had a long, leisurely breakfast…"leisurely" being a relative term. For, Hermione, for the most part, was too nervous to eat. Even though she was ravenous, and had not eaten a proper meal, nor been properly full, for well over a month. This was part of the plan, though, too; while a poor diet and no sleep was perhaps a handicap in a majority of situations, it would, in fact, help her greatly a few days hence.

Once breakfast was over, and they had finished whatever meager, exhausted snippets of conversation they managed to piece together between the two of them, Hermione squeezed Harry's hand for luck, grabbed the bundle of clothing she had brought with her, and excused herself to the bathroom. The Men's bathroom.

Two minutes later, she emerged wearing a pair of Harry's old corduroys, his least favorite sweater, and looking perfectly, seamlessly, like Penny Paige's mousy-haired assistant, Dylan Hadley.

Harry watched her leave. Hermione didn't dare even glance in his direction due to the immediacy of the situation; she needed to hoof it over to the Ministry phone booth in order to take as much advantage of whatever amount of time the new potion had given her. This was made very difficult, however, because it turned out that there was one major downside to the polyjuice potion that, quite frankly, she was having difficulty negotiating: She was drunk. Crazy drunk. This, Hermione had not foreseen. All things considered, she really should have calculated this possibility into the equation, but she had been so focused on the other properties of firewhisky, its potency, and how it would lengthen the effects of the potion, she completely forgot about what large amounts of alcohol actually did to the human body. Perhaps because the portion size had been so small (surely no more than regular shot glass!). But it appeared that something about the combined magical properties of the concoction had condensed, perhaps even magnified, the alcoholic effects.

_Oh briiiilliant, Herms. That's just super fantastic, quite very much, just wonderfully perfection. Hermione. Great. Oh, dear, Hermione. Get a grips. Get… Get a grip. On yourself._

She paused outside the pub to take a deep breath and attempt to collect herself.

_Okie. Inner dialogue, not so pithy. But let's give our bests to make verbal speech more goodly, kay? Good girl. Well, good. Okay. Let's go._

In any case, after her initial panicked realization, she began to settle into the flow of it, and the situation eventually began to seem half-way manageable. Terrifying, disgruntling, but manageable. She wobbled a little when she walked, as the ground felt more like the deck of a ship at sea rather than stable concrete, and her brain took a few more nanoseconds than usual to processes information and formulate a response—but, all in all, after a few more minutes of practicing coherent speech in her head, she thought she was more or less up to handling it. And even if she wasn't, what other choice did she have?

Once at the phone booth, Hermione squeezed in with an elderly red haired wizard and his toddler nephew, riding with them down to the Ministry's ground floor. On the way down, she asked, casually and succinctly as she could possibly manage, if the old wizard happened to know on which level the Azkaban Office was located. He looked very startled by the question, but Hermione introduced herself as Dylan Hadley, Dylan Hadley who worked for Penny Paige, Penny Paige who worked for The Daily Prophet, Penny Paige who meant business, and so the old man was quick to oblige Hermione with an answer. It turned out that he did, in fact, know very well where the Azkaban Office was located, as he worked as a file clerk in the Office of Magical Security and Law Enforcement, which was right next door.

Relieved, and more than a little awed by her own good luck, Hermione was able to follow the old man (whose name, she learned, was Leopold), and his nephew (whose name Hermione did not catch) straight through the check-in desk on the ground floor. Then they continued on through the maze of passages, elevators, doors, crowds of bustling wizards, and trolls, and goblins, and all the way up to the office itself. She thanked Leopold kindly, waved goodbye to the little boy, who stared at her strangely (_He knows! He knows!_ she shrieked silently in her head), watched them hobble quickly away, and then she walked inside.

Hermione found the appropriate forms almost immediately. Thank God. They were located on a stand right next to the door; she grabbed the blue one titled "Azkaban Prisoner Visitation" and began filling it out.

_What the fuckin' blimey, Hermione, no, no—your name is DYLAN, you stupid cow, why are you, it'ssss Dylan, what is wrong with, pull it together, this is, this… Oh fuck, I need another one. Fuck._

Trying to be nonchalant about it (in retrospect, she doubted very much she was able to pull off anything even close to nonchalance) she threw away the first form and grabbed a brand new one.

A tall albino man was sitting in a chair close to the stand with the forms, and he gave Hermione a very incredulous, judgmental look—which Hermione subsequently ignored. Or tried to ignore. Actually, it was very hard to ignore anything when you were magically disguised as a person you had never met, surrounded by potential enemies, and quite arguably wasted out of your mind.

She shook her head, and tried to concentrate on the new form. It was actually very simple, she thought, which made Hermione wary, but she decided not to get ahead of herself. Completing it took much longer than was probably appropriate, as Hermione had to focus harder than she ever had in her life on making sure that her letters were straight and her answers were coherent—everything, including the text on the paper, seemed to be swimming before her eyes. Looking at them for too long made her feel dizzy, a little nauseous even. But, ironically, her nerves somewhat helped to steady her—they sobered her enough so that she was able to give her task the proper attention. This time with the correct name, and hopefully the correct information. Some of it she had to make up, but she had already prepared most of Dylan's backstory in advanced, though it was a miracle she managed to remember it all.

Once finished, Hermione turned in the form to the secretary—who was very old, and very mean, and who sat at a desk in the middle of the room scribbling away on a seemingly never ending stack of papers with the most enormous peacock feather quill Hermione had ever seen in her life. For a moment, Hermione had an almost overwhelmingly impulse to just, to just _grab it_ and start prancing around the room giggling madly, but—

_STOP IT. Okay. No. Don't do that. Bad idea, Herms. Bad. Bloody. Idea. What would Snape do? Hahahaha..._ Hermione had to suppress the mad gurgle of laughter welling up in her throat. What would Snape do, indeed. That would have been a good standard to hold herself to, if the the thought of Snape's expression upon hearing even a fraction of her current thought process didn't seem like the funniest—

"Take a seat," growled the secretary, as she snatched the form out of Hermione's hand. "Over there." She pointed a gnarled finger at a group of chairs lined up against the wall to Hermione's right, where several witches and wizards were already sitting. Each one looked more dangerous than the other. Hermione sat in the chair on the end, the farthest from all of them she could feasibly get, and settled down to wait. She looked at her watch. By this time, half an hour had already passed, and it was sure to take her a while to negotiate her way back out of the Ministry and onto the streets again. She hoped she wouldn't have to wait too long.

She waited for two and a half hours.

This was not because the line was extraordinarily long—in fact, it was quite short—rather it was because each person who went in (apart from the entrance, there were four different doors, through one of which people with blue forms were escorted) did not come out again for ages. Hermione was growing frantic. Three hours! She had been in Dylan's body, now, for three whole hours, and there was no telling how much longer the potion would last! She felt her insides quaking and shaking, her every sense acutely tuned to each pair of eyes in the room—of which there were many—and how many times they turned in her direction. In particular, there was an incredibly foul-smelling Cyclops sitting on her left, whose one eye kept glancing over her, very pointedly, every few minutes, as though he were sizing her up, trying to decide whether she would taste best with the Chianti or Sauvignon Blanc. (Not that Hermione had any basis for assuming that a Cyclops would eat a little girl—_MAN. YOU ARE A MAN, HERMIONE. JESUS._—or that even if he did, he liked to enjoy said man at the dinner table whilst sipping daintily upon a glass of expensive Italian wine, but her mind was doing strange things to her, and nothing made sense anymore). She wanted to leave, she needed to leave. In fact, Hermione was half a second away from cutting her losses and bolting for the exit, when a woman with a bandana and hooped earrings emerged from the Azkaban Prisoner Visitation door, and the secretary warbled out Dylan's name.

"Mr. Dylan Hadley, Azkaban Visitation!" The woman then glared at Hermione viciously, wrinkling her hooked nose, baring her teeth which were crooked and yellow and looked as though they were, this very moment, rotting right out of her mouth. Hermione stared helplessly.

_Oh goodness, you are so ugly_, Hermione found herself thinking, despite whatever shred of good sense she had left telling her she was mad. _Oh, my gracious, madam, you are just, you are just the worst. Looking. I'm, I am sorry, indeed, I wish I could help you with that. I mean, I don't know how, but you need to, you need something, because you are, frankly, not aesthetically fortunate. In the face. Or, really, all over. Really. I—Oh, shit. Stop that. Need to, yes, walk now, into the room. What would Snape do? Hahaha, Keep it together, Herms, Hermione, Dylan, please, or you are very likely going to screw this up quite royally. Which would not be, that would not be helpful. At all. Thank you. Dylan. Hadley. Man. Dylan Hadley, the man. I am a man. Yes. Thank you._

Slowly, deliberately, Hermione stood from her chair, trying her hardest not to seem unsteady or, in fact, completely pissed. She nodded to the secretary on her way by, attempting normalcy (probably failed spectacularly), then walked right through the Azkaban Prisoner Visitation door and into the room beyond.

The room was very bright, very sparse. There was only one desk and two chairs, in one of which sat a middle-aged witch with long brown hair and piercing green eyes. She did not look friendly.

Heart hammering painfully somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, Hermione sat down in the chair opposite the woman.

The woman had a file on the desk in front of her, which she opened. It took a moment before Hermione realized who's file it was—it was Dylan's.

_Oh, dear._

That's what this was. An interview, a background check—which made perfect sense. Of course! Surely the Ministry didn't allow just anyone to visit Azkaban prisoners, there had to be some sort of protocol. And, judging by the amount of time each person had spent in this room before Hermione's turn, this protocol was very efficient, and very thorough. Which was not fortunate news. For Hermione.

"Good afternoon, Mr…" said the woman tersely, trailing off to allow Hermione the chance to introduce herself.

_Make nice impressions on the lady!_

Hermione stood abruptly, and, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, flung out her hand over the desk. "Dylan Hadley, it's a damned pleasure to meet you."

_What? Why, Hermione! Why!_

Understandably, the woman looked quite shocked. Clearly, this was not common behavior for those whom she usually interviewed. However, she took Hermione's hand and shook it politely.

"Yes. Mr. Hadley, a pleasure. My name is Rose, I will be interviewing you today."

"Rose? That's lovely, what a lovely name. Fire away, Rose." For some stupid, ungodly, unknowable reason, Hermione winked as she sat back in her chair.

_STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT..._

Except… Hermione couldn't believe it. Surely, her brain was playing tricks on her again, but it just seemed, very much, as though Rose the interviewer was… blushing. She was! Hermione, Dylan, whoever, seemed to be having an effect. A positive effect.

"Thank you, Mr. Hadley. I'll try not to fire too many."

_Oh, dear Jesus, we're flirting! WHAT? How is… well, maybe this is, yes, this is goodly. Good. This can help. Keep doing this. Hermione. Dylan. Mr. Hadley. Is this wise? What the hell do I know. Just don't throw up on her. She likes me._

And Hermione's drunken conscience could not have been more correct. Because while the first half hour passed relatively smoothly—with easy, answerable questions that mostly pertained to Dylan's work, and his interest in interviewing an inmate of Azkaban Prison, there were a few things that Rose stumbled upon which Hermione nearly had a heart attack trying to answer.

"So, I see you have a charge on here—Excuse me, I don't mean to pry unnecessarily, but it says here that you were arrested three years ago for… am I getting this correct? You were arrested for charming the wall of a women's public toilet so that it became transparent to those on the other side. The other side was a men's public toilet. Would you care to explain or elaborate on that charge?"

_Dylan. What the fuck._

Hermione felt her mind go deeply, infinitely blank. But Rose was waiting for an answer, and Hermione's whole plan, her entire everything depended on passing this screening test with flying colors. She had to answer! Now! Hermione's poor, troubled mind, raced for what felt like hours to assemble an appropriate response. She didn't even know where to start. _What? Toilets? Disgusting! Why would he do that? Me. So horrible! Why would, who would, how could someone, I mean, What? WHY?_

Finally, finally, at long last, she was able to mutter a very unconvincing, "Framed, I was. Very… embarrassing. Couldn't give an alibi. I was… framed. Of course."

Much to Hermione's surprise, Rose did not seem to think Hermione's response unconvincing—or if she did, she made a deliberate point of rationalizing it anyway. Rose simply smiled apologetically and nodded, reaching out to pat Hermione's hand with an uncomfortable sensuality that made Hermione's cheeks grow very warm indeed.

"Of course, Mr. Hadley… er, Dylan. May I call you Dylan? Would you mind that terribly?"

Hermione swallowed the big lump in her throat and did her best to smile rakishly (though she had never in her life known what a rakish smile looked like). "You certainly can, Rose. Certainly, you can."

And so the interview went on. A few more rocky moments came and went, but things were going well… until Hermione glanced at her watch and realized with an enormous jolt that she was nearing the fifth hour mark!

She could feel it happening already; her pulse was quickening, her vision was stabilizing—her speech was becoming more and more succinct, easier to manage. _Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no!_

As the minutes continued to tick by, and Rose began to wind down her questions into the final farewells, Hermione was all but jumping out of her chair with nervous anticipation.

Finally, Rose ended by giving Hermione's hand a particularly affectionate squeeze and telling her—quite suggestively—that she got off work at five, and if Dylan might like to meet her for drinks?

"Er… er, no… no, I'm sorry, I can't… I have, a prior engagement… going out of town… yes… I'm sorry—but I'll be back! Yes! I'll be back, er, next week, and maybe then—"

"Oh, perfect. Glorious. It's a date, gorgeous, I can't wait to see you and get you all… liquored up." She batted her eyelashes.

Hermione felt, with an alarming pop, one of her feet shrink back to normal size within one of Harry's borrowed shoes. Instantly, she leapt out of her chair, grabbed Rose's hand in an extremely brief but erratic handshake, shouted something along the lines of, "YesIwillthankyouverymuchbye!" then turned tail and took off out the door, through the waiting room, and back into the hall.

The Ministry, just as she feared, was difficult to escape. There were people everywhere, and no stairs, only lifts—which were close and uncomfortable. Every time it stopped, Hermione expected someone familiar to shuffle in, recognize her, and blow her entire plan to smithereens. She had looked fully like her own self for a good ten minutes before she was finally able to find her way back out onto the street again. But, thankfully, luck had been with her once again, and no one familiar had entered the lifts, or stopped her, or seemed to identify her as the missing, bushy-haired best friend of Harry Potter. She had made it. For now.

Once on the pavement, Hermione took off Harry's overlarge shoes and carried them in her hand as she sprinted as fast as she could to the hotel where Harry had said he would be renting a room for them for the day. Harry was in the lobby, reading the paper when she arrived. He jumped to his feet as Hermione barged in.

Gasping for breath, Hermione tried to tell him, in as few words as possible, her success. "I don't know, Harry, there was, you see, this man, small child, then, albino guy, these _forms_, my gosh, and a Cyclops, I couldn't handle this, old woman, so ugly, don't know why, so sorry, so rude, and I flirted, with this lady, interviewed me, so many questions, she liked me, a lot, I don't think, that was appropriate, but she wouldn't shut up, and Dylan, bloody, fucking, is a maniac, did _not_ know about his past, and, and, Oh God, Harry, I gotta lay down."

Laughing a bit with dumbfounded amazement, Harry led Hermione (who was still babbling occasionally, and always incoherently) up a flight of stairs and into their rented room.

Because they could only fly their brooms at night, under the cover of darkness, Hermione had the whole rest of the day in which to catch up on some much needed rest. Which she did, immediately. The moment Harry opened the door and led her inside, Hermione collapsed into bed, still dressed in Harry's clothes. Her head had barely sunk into the pillow before she fell into a deep, profound, immovable slumber.

* * *

Travel over the next three days and nights was tough but uneventful. They rested in hotel rooms and in Muggle pubs when the sun was up, and flew fast and furious as far as they could once it set.

On the third night, they reached a dense, unpopulated forest. This meant they could continue to fly even as the sun rose, for they were well into wizard country now and did not fear any Muggles sighting them. And time was running out; they needed to really push it in order to make it to their final campsite with enough time to spare before "Dylan's" scheduled interview with Snape.

That evening, they landed on the outskirts of a pond, far into the woods, a few short miles from the ocean, and made camp. Admittedly, "camp" did not mean a lot, because neither of them had had enough room or ingenuity to magic up, or bring with them, a tent. But they were both so utterly exhausted that even sleeping on the ground did not entirely discourage them.

Hermione stayed at the campsite only long enough to see that Harry was settled and had started a small fire, before she began to prepare herself for the next enormous step in her plan. It had to be done that night, because tomorrow was the interview.

She took out the bag that contained the three remaining vials of polyjuice potion, along with Dylan's hair. Then she transferred two vials, and half of what remained of the hair, into a small pouch with a long string that Hermione was then able to tie around her neck. She stowed the rest of the hair and the final vial of polyjuice back in the bag (to be used the next morning). Then she took out the invisibility cloak and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders, so familiar was she now with the weight of it, the feel of it. She left the hood down, as she would need range of vision.

Then Hermione looked at Harry. His face was stoic and unreadable across the campfire. The moment he sensed that Hermione was ready to leave, Harry stood up, walked over to her, and enveloped her in a fierce hug.

"Be safe," he said, gruffly in her ear. His emotions had been running hot for months now, but it was only this past week that seemed to have rubbed him raw.

Hermione had no voice with which to answer. So she simply nodded, hugged him in return, and then mounted Harry's Firebolt. She used one hand to steady herself, and in the other, she held Ron's Cleansweep.

Time was still of the essence. With no further indication or ceremonious word, Hermione kicked off from the ground and soared high up into the stars. The wind off the ocean grew louder and louder in her ears the further upwards she climbed. Up and up she flew, until the campfire disappeared from view, and all around her was the night sky.

It took a moment to orient herself. Azkaban Prison was just a tiny black dot far, far in the distance, across the forest, out in the ocean, surrounded by dark sea water. She found it, though, and made right for it, her knees gripping the Firebolt so hard she could feel her skin beginning to bruise.

As the black dot came nearer, steadily growing in size, larger and larger, Hermione could start to feel the unearthly coldness of the Dementors. It permeating her skin, her body, her every organ. The very blood in her veins felt chilled. In fact, she was so close now that if she strained her eyes, she could even see the Dementors, flying around the perimeter of the prison. Guarding it.

This was why Hermione hadn't eaten or slept—had done nothing but run herself down to the barest shell of a person she dared to become.

Her intended destination was not technically a hot spot for Dementors (she did not think); it would be on the rocks, close to the water, well out of the way. But Dementors had keen senses, and Hermione did not want to risk them detecting her through her emotions, her health of spirit. So she let herself feel hungry and tired, desperate, sad—all the things that a Dementor would find unappetizing and would hopefully ignore. It was with this mindset that Hermione approached the treacherous rocks at the base of Azkaban's island.

The wind was mighty, howling. The waves thundered and crashed at her feet, exploding against the rocks, occasionally dousing her when they leapt too high. Every time a wave caught her, it felt like a wall of ice shattering over her head, pushing her down a few feet. She felt dizzy and confused. She had a difficult time finding the right place to land (as, all things considered, her flying skills were still less than admirable). And yet she managed it, somehow. She managed it.

Once off her broom, she began to climb, feet slipping, her entire body soaked with frigid ocean water. Within minutes her hands ached torturously from having to catch herself so many times as a gusts of wind bowled into her and she had to prevent herself from falling to her immediate death. Time went by, she climbed on and on, up and up. Eventually, Hermione was able to find a flat spot, a break in the cliff face, with enough room for her to crouch comfortably for a few minutes. Here, she carefully placed Harry's Firebolt. Then she unhooked the invisibility cloak from around her shoulders and laid it over the broom, making sure, extra, incredibly sure, to anchor it on all available sides with heavy rocks, so that no matter how hard the wind blew (and it was blowing very hard indeed), the cloak would remain where it was. At least, she hoped it would. With all her might she hoped to everything in the world, that it would.

She used a small jagged rock to scratch a large 'X' into a nearby boulder, marking the spot so she could find it again later. Then she wedged the Cleansweep between some heavy rocks, shaking it back and forth several times until she was certain it was secure.

At last, the final task Hermione had left to complete was to sit on the hard, wet ground, close her eyes tight, and concentrate. Concentration was difficult; the gears of her mind were so frozen, it took a momentous effort to get them going again. She shut out everything—the wind, her ocean soaked hair thrashing about her face, the aching in her feet, her legs, her hands, her shoulders, the cold and ever present anguish of the Dementors' presence pressing in on her from every available angle, her own nerves, her anxieties, _everything_—and transformed herself once more into her animagus form. Her body shrank, her skin grew fur, her ears lengthened and magnified the sounds of the howling ocean. The transformation was complete.

So it was, eighty-seven days after Severus Snape had been snatched up by the Ministry and taken so abruptly from her life, Hermione Granger, exhausted beyond all human comprehension, but still determined with every bone and fiber of her body and being, began the long, laborious climb, up the cliff face of Azkaban Prison, into a gutter pipe, beneath the stone wall, through the vermin infested corridors, up the damp, dripping, mold covered stairwells, step by step, and eventually, hopefully, tediously, all the way up to the prison cell in which Severus Snape now waited. Where she would try to rescue him. Save his life. Just as he had done for her. Many times over.


	28. The Grand Escape Part III

**Chapter Twenty-Eight:**

Hermione shrank back into the darkness as she heard heavy booted footsteps approaching. Despite the iron grate between her and the oncoming wizard guard, the fear was too much. She shut her eyes. Already, her teeth ached from how desperately hard she was clenching the foul-smelling fabric she held in her mouth. The fabric was an Azkaban prison uniform—one for which she had gone to great lengths to steal, and which was subsequently to blame for her current situation. She had managed to locate the closet where they were kept relatively fast, only to find the area busy with patrolling guards and so was forced to travel by way of the prison's drainage system. The pipes, which turned out to be hopelessly labyrinthine—meaning she could not for the life of her figure out a way to return the same way she came—gave her few options for escape. Most of the grates she happened upon where either rusted shut, blocked by something heavy, or in an area too open for her to attempt any sort of remotely inconspicuous exit. So she had continued on through the dark, wet, winding tunnels of pipe and claustrophobic stone, lost and frightened, dragging her tired body from grate to grate. Now, at last, she had found a viable one through which to free herself, and she was all but ready to collapse with exhaustion! All that peril for one moldy piece of cloth. But, it was a necessary moldy piece of cloth, detrimental to the success of tomorrow's plan, and so she did not, even for a moment, consider it unworthy of her struggles.

As the footsteps grew louder, seeming so close now she thought she could smell the boot leather, a white glow pressed briefly against Hermione's closed eyelids. This glow was that of the wizard guard's Patronus, she knew, and it horrified her. She had seen it twice before. A bloodhound.

Though her human mind knew that the Patronus was not real, that it was all but ethereal and harmful only to Dementors, her rabbit mind was going haywire with terror. She flattened her long ears against her body, trying to preserve whatever fleeting scraps of rational thought still remained within her. If she let instinct take over—the animal instinct already half-permeated through her body—she would lose it. She would bolt. She would be caught. And she would die.

Well, perhaps she would not die—but the consequences would be severe. So much so that she refused to even begin to contemplate what they might be. Best to just assume death. Because either way, failure, discovery, was not an option.

Fortunately, within a few short breaths, it was over. The footsteps passed, the glow receded, and Hermione was left alone once again in the dank, oppressive darkness of the drainpipe.

Time to go.

Paws wet and trembling—for she was sitting in a good three inches of frigid water—Hermione crept forward so that her back could press up against the small grate above her. She braced herself as best she could on the slick ground, and pushed upwards, hard. The grate creaked but did not budge. She pushed again, harder, the iron ridges digging into the muscles of her back. This time the grate yielded briefly, rising for a fraction of a second before her strength failed and she had to let it fall back down again with a muffled clang.

Breathing hard, Hermione made one last ditch effort to pull herself together. This had to work, this was her only viable option for escape—she had to accomplish this or she would never find her way out and all would be lost.

Hermione closed her eyes once more, and attempted to summon back even the tiniest degree of that electric determination she had first felt when looking into the haunted eyes of her imprisoned professor (whose company she had parted no more than an hour ago). Her heart ached for his pale, wasted figure. She yearned help him, and yet there, in his cell, she hadn't had time for pity or attempts at comfort, there was only time enough for a fiery sense of indignation to explode within her, consuming her instantly with a burning resolve to follow her plan through no matter what it took, and to finally secure Snape's immediate, justified, release.

Sitting there in the storm drain beneath one of Azkaban's minor passageways, Hermione recalled the image of Snape's face in her mind. It had been very dark, but her eyes were keen and she could well see the gauntness of his cheeks, the scrapes on his hands and face, the bruises; as he had stared deep into her eyes, his mind delving aggressively, mercilessly into hers, she had felt, in one, all-consuming wave, every one of the eighty-seven days he had spent in wretched, torturous misery.

_The least you can do, Hermione, is budge one blasted scrap of metal!_

She gathered her strength for the last time, muscles tense and aching, and drew upon the most powerful memory she could imagine:

Snape, collapsed on the ground, helpless with fever, dying in her arms. How she had held him to her, cradled his head, and wished, and wished, and…

_CLANG!_Hermione exploded upwards with all her might. The iron grate fell away at last. She was free!

Hermione slipped and scrabbled her way out of the pipe, yanking the cumbersome uniform after her. The sleeve snagged suddenly, and she fell back. Her heart leapt. She pulled again but the sleeve was wedged tight now. A cloud of chill descended upon the passageway. Hermione could see her breath. A Dementor was coming!

Just across the hall from where she now sat, stuck, tugging with growing desperation at her precious burden, was a heavy wooden door. Just a short ways beyond it, she could sense the Dementor coming towards her. It shouldn't be able to see her or sense her yet. It was moving fast. Something was in all probability _making_it move. Another wizard guard and his Patronus! Perhaps even the same one from before. How could he already be coming back!

She was so exposed here and defenseless, but she couldn't dive back into the drainpipe because there would be no way of replacing the grate behind her. The guard might see the hole and she would be found out for sure. She needed to run, she needed to escape. She also couldn't leave the uniform, she needed it too!

Finally, after another long, frantic pull, there was a nasty rip and the sleeve gave way. Hermione paused briefly to attempt to nudge the grate back into place, but it was too heavy to move more than a few inches. She gave up, turning and taking off with lightning speed towards what she prayed with all her might was an exit.

She regretted having to leave the grate where it was, lying still significantly askew. There was nothing she could do about it. She would just have to chance it and hope no one noticed. Surely everything could still work out! Surely she hadn't just ruined things after all this!

Hermione rounded a corner as she heard the door, far behind her now, open and close. She had been right about the wizard guard; there were distant footsteps coming her way. But her nerves were lessening. She could sense that she was headed in the right direction, in the direction of what would soon be the outer walls of the prison, and freedom at last. The doors to the outside, of course, were locked shut, but there were plenty of windows with bars wide enough for her to squeeze through.

She just had to find one.

A minute later, Hermione emerged from the passageway into a large, dimly lit room. It was bare, all stone and heavy wooden doors, just like the rest of the endless passageways she had already run through many times tonight. And yet... there was an absence of torches in this room, it had to be moonlight, where was it coming from? Left! Hermione turned and sprinted towards a small window about waist high off the ground. She had no plan or experience to help her with what she was about to do, she was just taking a shot and hoping it turned out. Halfway to her goal, she put on a burst of speed and took a running leap straight towards the window.

She misjudged her trajectory by about an inch and a half. The side of her head collided with one of the thick metal bars with a sharp crack. _Ouch!_She tried to steady herself again, eyes running with tears as little dots of light danced around her vision. The left side of her brain felt like someone was pressing down on it with the flat side of a white-hot poker. Thankfully, somehow, she had found and retained her grip on the stone window ledge. The bulk of the uniform she was carrying had, surprisingly, served as an aid rather than hindrance. It not only cushioned the blow, but helped her remain in place, wedged as she was, halfway in and halfway out of the prison window.

Knowing she did not have even seconds to spare, Hermione ignored the blistering pain in her head and wriggled forward, kicking her large rabbit feet until she could sit fully on the window frame. The wind from the outside battered at her, freezing cold, making her nose and eyes burn. She welcomed it all the same. The salt air, the starlight it was bracing. She was almost free!

Next, with a small amount of squirming around, Hermione managed to pull the uniform out from beneath her and dropped it strategically on the rocky ground below. Carefully, she then slipped down off the window, using the thick cloth to cushion her fall.

Gathering up her burden once again, she began the long, winding climb back down the cliff face. She did not know where on the island she had emerged, and so thought the wisest bet would be to take a diagonal path, around and around the whole perimeter, until, hopefully, she might recognize the place where she had first arrived.

Even though the moon and stars were out, the night was still very dark, the cold-induced tears in her eyes made it difficult to see, and Hermione was extraordinarily disoriented. It took a long, torturous hour of searching before she was able to find her way. By that time, she had at last gone ahead and taken the risk of changing herself back into regular form; she feared that if she waited any longer, she might not have the strength to do it at all. On top of which, she simply could not drag that bloody uniform any further. Not an inch further. Instead, once human again, she pulled it over her head and wore it. Though admittedly repulsive under any other circumstances (added to which, there was a long rent where the sleeve had torn), Hermione was sure she was borderline hypothermic, and the uniform was surprisingly thick. She welcomed the extra layer of warmth.

The amount of relief she felt when she at last saw Ron's cleansweep, exactly where she had left it, wedged in between the rocks near the large 'X' she had carved several hours previously, was almost unfathomable. She had to scale a particularly large bolder in order to reach it, and that took a few tries. Once she had pulled herself on top, she made the mistake of looking over the side, and felt an immediate sense of vertigo. She was not so very far away from the ocean. But the waves were churning with an alarming velocity, and the height was still plenty enough to cause pain or injury if she fell. Swallowing back her fear, Hermione, turned to the broom and attempted to free it. She was successful, but only with some difficulty, as her arms and legs were shaking so violently she could hardly control them. Either from the cold or from exhaustion, of from the fear of possible drowning, she didn't know. Perhaps all of it put together.

Once she had the broom firmly in her hands, she mounted up, and without any further ceremony, launched herself outwards into the open air. For the briefest second, she let herself relax, sensing victory, finally, ready to let the broom take over her journey back to land.

She hadn't launched herself hard enough.

An enormous gust of wind slammed into her from the front, rocketing her backwards into the side of the island. In the blink of an eye, she was bashed violently sideways against the rocks, and for the second time that night she felt her head crack against a hard surface. Momentarily paralyzed with pain and shock, she crumpled instantly to the ground. The surface on which she landed was wet and slick. She slid off the large boulder from which she had just launched, falling several feet into a small groove between rocks on an overhang just bellow.

Hermione dimly felt the broom slip out of her hand. She tried to command her fist to grasp it, keep hold of it—dear God, it was her only hope!—but her body would not listen. The broom fell away.

Hermione lay there in the dark, dazed, her body twisted and throbbing. She could hardly breath, crushed as she was into such a small space, utterly entombed in stone. Was she going to die here? The manner in which she fell had her neck bent so far back that she could see behind her. All that greeted her was a blank wall of more stone. Her left arm had been pinned underneath her body somehow, and it hurt viciously. She didn't have the strength to move it. The wind howled overhead, like a thousand banshee's wailing unceasingly just outside her range of vision. The waves off the ocean added further violence, crashing thunderously against the cliff face, so near that she felt the vibrations in her teeth. A heavy mist of sea spray descended on her from above, salt digging angrily into her pores, making her skin burn and itch to the point of debilitating irritation.

She was defeated. The broom was lost. Everything was over.

With that, Hermione began to cry.

Her chest ached with the force of her sobs. She cried, and cried, and made no attempt to stop. In the grand scheme of things, she knew how dreadfully much she needed to cry; she hadn't for so long, and in that moment, there was nothing else she could do.

Visions of Snape wove in and out of her mind as the seconds ticked by. Him hunkered down in his cell, like a caged animal, curled up on the floor, wasting away with hunger and torment, his whole body as wracked with pain as hers was now. Worse, even. Worse…

He may have felt what she was feeling, Hermione realized, but she had only felt it for a few hours. He had been feeling this way for eighty-seven days. And yet, as she had seen him just hours ago, he was still fighting. He still clung on, preparing himself to grit his teeth and continue forward with every ounce of strength he had left in him.

_If you can, so can I_, she vowed silently. _I swear to God, to everything, I swear to whatever spark of love and devotion we may still share between us, I won't give up. I won't, I bloody swear I won't!_

As best she could, Hermione rolled herself sideways, managing, with a painful wrench, to unpin her arm. Once free, with an effort so mighty she thought she might faint, she grasped the edge of the boulder to her side and pulled herself into a sitting position.

Her sobs had calmed now. The tears still came, but she paid them no mind, wiping them away on her sleeve. She blinked hard, clearing her vision, and began searching furiously around for the lost cleansweep. Yes, the wind was hideously strong, and in all likelihood the broom had been blown away or dashed against the rocks. Hermione refused to believe it; to believe it would be to admit defeat, and she was not ready for that. All she had in mind now was her plan. It was crystal clear. Nothing else crowded her thoughts. Only instinct, only the desire to complete her objective. The night was wearing on, and she needed to make it back to the campsite before daybreak.

She squinted through the heavy mist, trying not to panic, trying to hurry, but also trying to be methodic and not rush herself in case she missed something. Many times, she lost her train of sight in the shadows and crevices of the rocks, but her resolution did not waver. Then…

There! It was just there! Only a few yards away, tucked precariously beneath a small overhang, she saw it.

Good luck willing, she figured she could reach it in a minute or two, hopefully before an errant wave or gust of wind took it out of sight again. So, ignoring the protest of her many aches, her joints, what seemed like each sinew of muscle, as well as the rhythmic, shuddering pain in her head that all but took her breath away—she wiped something from her forehead, then from her cheek, was that blood?—Hermione scrambled as best she could out of the crevice and over the side of the island towards the small speck of brown. Clumsily, she scraped her hands and knees as she didn't dare take her eyes away from the precious object even for a second.

Very soon, she was there, and Ron's broom was once again captured firmly in her hands.

Trembling violently, Hermione mounted once more. She gripped the handle, knuckles white. Her jaw set. This time, no mistakes. She took a breath then kicked off from the ground, hard. She could feel the jolt like a gunshot from the balls of her heels up the entire length of her spine—painful, but it did the trick. She soared high into the sky. Up and up, fast as she could, then forward and forward, on and on, she flew, wild and relentless, through the raging winds, until she dared to look behind her and Azkaban was nothing but a shapeless shadow far, far in the distance.

Hermione should have felt relief at last. The shoreline was approaching fast before her. But all she felt was determination. She had caught her second wind. Literally. And her body was taught with nerves. The plan was still on course. Everything was still in place. Soon it would be morning. She was anxious for the next hour of action.

Fearful.

Impatient.

Hopeful.

* * *

Severus had no sense of time or day, how could he? No watch, no window, just darkness. Even the guards' rounds were erratic and unpredictable, therefore unhelpful as a measurable device. He had no notion of how many hours, months—years?—had passed. He simply lived… or rather, existed, in a suspended world of torture.

Even though he knew the plan, his role within it and how to execute the required actions, he could not anticipate when it would begin. He was very tired—as he always was, perpetually, every moment since he had arrived here—and was tempted to sleep. Yet therein lay the problem of not knowing how much longer until daybreak; he wanted his wits about him when Hermione came. It would add greater difficulty to an already difficult feat if he were groggy or disoriented from sleep.

The upshot was that she would be there very early the following morning, which meant he only needed to wait, at most, a few hours. But those hours seemed long, as time crawled at a gruelingly slow pace in the haze of anticipation.

Physical exertion would help him to ward off sleep, Severus thought, but he also did not want to do anything out of the ordinary that might draw suspicion. Until now, he had spent the majority of his time either sleeping or lying lethargically on the ground. If a guard happened to walk by and saw him pacing his cell—anxiously or otherwise—they might, for whatever reason, be inclined to keep a tighter watch on him.

As it was, his only option was to lie there, just as he had been for the past however many hours, and dream of his escape. There was not much else to occupy his thoughts—or distract him from the dark mark on his arm, which had been irritating him more than usual of late. Either because he was more aware of it, or because the Dark Lord had recently suffered a particularly infuriating setback. Either way, it was bothering him.

Severus adjusted himself uncomfortably. As he did so, the pouch tucked away in his sleeve shifted, and the two vials of polyjuice potion within it clinked together softly. He froze.

No. Certainly no one had heard that. There were too many screams and moans of agony rippling through these prison walls.

More time passed without incident, and Severus once again slipped into a state of tedious anticipation. How much longer? How much time had already passed? At least two hours. At least. Maybe. It was so hard to tell! And made all the more frustrating with the knowledge that, prior to his stay at Azkaban, Severus recalled possessing an extraordinarily adept internal clock—precise almost to a heartbeat. Such a skill was one of many which had made him very good at his job, as a spy and member of the Order. Now that skill was apparently gone… Then again, what did it matter? Regardless of whether he made it out of prison alive, his double agent days were over. The same for his as a Professor at Hogwarts (though that thought did not particularly pain him). In less than twenty-four hours, he would be what he had been before—in hiding—only, this time, there would be no alternate place he could turn, no position to fill, no even marginally relevant use to serve. Both sides would be after him. Voldemort for betraying him, and the Ministry for escaping Azkaban. He would be nothing. Less than nothing—a coward! A runaway, a convict! Unless…

Of course, there was, potentially, one more role for him to play, and for a cause other than his own self-preservation.

Severus had extracted crucial information from Travers about Voldemort: his new whereabouts, his plans for the future, potential weaknesses. Once Severus in turn revealed this information to the appropriate people (Dumbledore, members of the Order), they could begin to assemble a final resistance, a final attack, to finish the Dark Lord and his followers once and for all. If this happened, Severus would be able, temporarily, to abandon his role as a traitorous convict and take on something new. A far worthier role. He would be a warrior. A warrior knight, with a respectable cause, leading the charge, fire in his heart, the sun at his back, illuminating whatever scrap of purity and goodness still lay within him for all the world to see…

Severus did not realize he had fallen asleep until the loud clang of a door opening and closing halfway down the cellblock startled him awake.

Groggy for half a second, unthinking of the circumstances, he relaxed again against the floor, meaning to fall back right back asleep—then a pair of blazing, golden brown eyes flashed in his memory and he snapped to attention. Hermione! The escape!

He remained where he lay, but his muscles were taught, and his mind whirled quickly through the steps he would be taking in the next ten minutes. It would be quick, and it had to be flawless; one mistake and it would all be over. One way or another, in ten minutes, it would all be over.

Several pairs of footsteps approached. Severus pretended to be asleep. The icy chill of Dementor gloom increased exponentially, and the footsteps stopped. They were standing right outside his cell. She… Hermione, was standing right outside.

A key scraped the lock of the cell and one of the guards rapped against the bars with his wand.

"Visitor, Professor! Rise and shine, Slimy—you've got a visitor from the Daily Prophet!"

_One, two, three, four_…

Severus breathed in, out, rolled over and rose, slowly, as though he were confused and cautious (admittedly, the trepidation, he did not have to fake). His hands clenched tightly inside his sleeves; in one fist, the left, was the vial of Polyjuice Potion to which Dylan Hadley's hair had been added. In the other fist was the vial in which Severus had placed his own hair just a few hours previously.

_…five, six…_

Severus blinked dully as the two wizard guards opened the door to Severus's cell and led a cloaked, gangly, mousy-haired young man inside. The man tripped momentarily on the hem of his robes, managed to catch himself, and seemed to blush with embarrassment. But Severus saw something else in that blush: terror, anxiety, someone dopey with alcohol-induced intoxication.

This young man, who, to all appearances, looked like Penny Paige's flunky assistant, Dylan Hadley—was actually not Dylan Hadley at all. It was Hermione Granger, and she had far more than "interviewing" on her mind.

_…seven, eight, nine…_

Dylan cleared his throat. "Er, I have… um, a few, a few questions, Mr. uh… Mr. Snape." He stepped cautiously forward, one hand clenched tightly to keep the cloak wrapped close around his shoulders. In fact, his hand was the only thing keeping it on his body, for—if Hermione had followed the plan correctly—the clasp was undone in preparation for what was about to happen next.

_…eleven, twelve…_

Four more seconds to go, thought Severus, as, despite himself, he felt his pulse begin to race. Surreptitiously, from within his sleeves, he uncorked the two vials of Polyjuice. His palms were sweaty, but his muscles, though tense, did not tremble. He was in control. He knew what to do. This plan was flawless—Granger had thought it through beautifully—he just had to execute it properly.

Severus stared at Dylan, and Dylan stared back. Only, it wasn't Dylan. Hermione, plain as day, was looking at him from behind those eyes. How did no one else see it? There she was, bold as brass, defiant and ready—loopy with firewhisky, yet focused, alight with anxious energy, and damned ready for action. An electric charge filled the air in the small space between them. There was a distinct thrill in this, in what they were doing. It was dangerous, but here they were—two intelligent beings defying the law and working together to do it in symbiotic harmony, as perfectly and completely as though they were one mind—and, in a sense, they were.

_…thirteen…_

Dylan held out his hand as though to introduce himself, using this as a pretense to stride forward so that he would be no more than two or three feet away.

_…fourteen… fifteen… and—_

Suddenly, the two guards jumped as what sounded like a bomb exploded some ways down the cellblock. In the excruciatingly small amount of time it took for the guards to turn their backs, walk a few steps, and look outside the cell towards the explosion, several things happened in quick succession:

First, Severus handed Dylan the Polyjuice Potion he held at his right, while at the same time lifted the one at his left to his lips and downed it in one gulp. As he did this, Dylan-Hermione in turn downed the potion she had just received, while simultaneously flinging the cloak off her shoulders and in the same motion, throwing it around Severus's. As the Polyjuice Potion began to take instant effect, both of them, as one, in two calculated strides, circled each other, and switched places.

Hermione handed Severus back the empty vial, which he pocketed along with the other one and the two corks, before wrapping the cloak tightly over his Azkaban prison uniform and hiding it entirely from view.

By the time one of the guards (the braver of the two) had taken off down the hall to investigate the noise, and the other turned back around to keep an eye on the prisoner and his guest, everything was in place—and the guard had no notion of anything having taken place at all.

Severus's potion had turned him into Dylan, and Hermione's potion had turned her into Severus. The only potential indication that something was out of order was a slight tear in the new Severus's uniform sleeve—but tears were not uncommon, such shoddy material often fell into disrepair, and so the guard had no reason to take notice of this minor altercation.

Severus stood there in Dylan's body looking eerily back at a gaunt, wasted version of himself. Is that what Azkaban had done to him? Then he swayed slightly where he stood as the alcohol hit him like a brick wall. His body was buzzing, his thoughts slippery and elusive. Focus, he told himself. Next step: Get out.

Severus turned to the guard, putting on a show of nervous energy (or, rather, letting his natural nerves show). "W-what was that?"

"Dunno," the guard replied, and then yelled down the cellblock to his partner. "What was it?"

"Whatever it is," came the irritated reply. "It smells like… URGH it smells like someone let off a dungbomb! But I can't find… I mean, I smell it, but there's nothing here."

The guard inside the cell turned to Severus, pointing his wand at him aggressively. "Did you do this?"

"I—" Severus was about to point out that "he" had "been here the whole time," when he was interrupted by a dull thump, indicating that Hermione—or rather, Severus, now—had fallen heavily to the ground.

Severus looked down at the copy of himself, whose face was alarmingly white, with a tinge of green, as though he were moments away from spilling his guts all over the floor. The Severus copy looked extraordinarily disoriented, and his eyes eventually closed, indicating that perhaps the room were spinning too fast for him to handle.

This made sense to Severus, as Hermione had now, in the span of an hour, taken two full doses of the densely alcoholic Polyjuice Potion, and whatever effects Severus was now feeling (which were surprisingly strong for such a small portion), Hermione was now feeling double.

Severus was instantly afire with anxiety. It took all his self control not to rush to her aid—too much alcohol in the blood could prove very dangerous—but there was no turning back, and the rest of their plan needed to be followed very strictly or else they would both be in an unthinkable amount of peril. He needed to section it off, he had done it before. Section off that part of his mind where Hermione Granger had somehow managed to permeate, ignore it, and then execute his current task with unflinching efficiency.

Gesturing to the Severus on the floor, Dylan-Severus said defensively, "I didn't do anything to him, I swear it! He just…"

The guard, surprisingly, did not look overly perturbed. "Yeah… It's the smell, I reckon. And anyway, that greasy rat's been looking sickly for weeks. Listen—I don't know what this dungbomb thing is about, but I don't like the looks of it, and, quite frankly, I don't like the looks of you."

Severus silently urged the guard to say what he hoped he would say next.

"Mr. Hadley, I think you had better come back another time. Or, preferably, not at all."

Perfect.

"I—I'm supposed to…" Severus pretended to protest faintly. Then he covered his nose as though so disgusted by the smell of the dungbomb that he would be very hard pressed to remain standing where he was.

As a result, the guard simply stepped back and made a sweeping gesture towards the open gate, as though to indicate that Dylan should leave.

Severus immediately obliged, sparing one long, unfathomable last look at his copy lying prostrate on the ground, as the guard closed the cell once more and locked it tight.

Even though he had made the particular effort of diluting his emotions, Severus could not help letting one final thought slip through, and linger for a moment, in the very front of his mind:

Hermione was on her own now.

Merlin help her.

* * *

Hermione lay where she had fallen for a long time, her eyes shut tight against overwhelming nausea and the disorientation caused by the world seemingly spinning rapidly around her.

On top of that, however, there was a small spark of triumph swelling somewhere inside her. Even though there was much yet to go, the majority of the escape had gone as planned, and—(Hermione couldn't help but smile)—at this very moment, Snape was on his way out the door. The guards would lead him back to the visitor area where Hermione had entered that morning, hand him her wand and her broom, which she had checked in upon arrival, and just like that, he would be off. Free and alive. Back to where Harry was waiting for him at their campsite.

Of course, meanwhile…

Hermione clenched her teeth as another rolling wave of nausea hit her. All of her limbs felt so heavy, the ground was like wet concrete, and she was slowly sinking into it, never to rise again.

She spared a moment to speculate that it would have been a violently odd sensation to inhabit the body of Severus Snape. But, as the situation stood now, she was too far gone to even begin to appreciate, not to mention explore, the utter absurdity of it. She felt rather tall (which was strange, because she was lying down), and that was about it.

Hermione tried to keep her senses as sharp as possible—even going so far as to attempt to recite the first page of _Hogwarts, a History_(which she had committed to memory long ago), but it was a futile effort, and eventually she fell into what could charitably be described as a drunken stupor. Every now and then she would remember where she was and what she was supposed to be waiting for, but, most of the time, she just let her brain sit very still, wrapped in a blanket of white static, with no thoughts or ideas running through it to stir up her anxieties.

It did smell very awful. Which was alright. She had only herself to blame.

The dungbomb had been Harry's idea, which Hermione had then been able to integrate into the complex weave of events she had already managed to organize. What made this dungbomb special was that not only was it a Weasley product, but because it was a Weasley product, it had an extra feature—in the form of an extraordinarily accurate time delay which the user could easily adjust to his or her own needs in order to facilitate the most effective mischief possible. Hermione had taken the extra precaution of turning it invisible (a charm she was vastly grateful to Professor Flitwick for teaching their class prior to this adventure). The bomb had worked perfectly as a timed distraction so that she and Snape could make the switch. Now though, the stench remained, and Hermione was beginning to regret such a hasty choice. She still had five hours to go before she could leave… and it was so dark and cold… How in the world would she be able to stand this…

It wasn't long before Hermione fell asleep. A deep sleep. So deep, in fact, she only tediously began to drift back into wakefulness just as her body started to pop and morph back into shape. She opened her eyes blearily to the feeling of herself shrinking, her limbs shortening, her hair growing. Immediately, the panic rose into her throat, her heart pattering, pattering inside her chest. It took a while for her to fully orientate herself.

This was it, the time had come. One final step and it would all be over.

She closed her eyes, gathered her thoughts as best she could, and bent her will to transforming herself into rabbit form.

Nothing happened.

She took a deep breath and tried again—this time with more fervor, a more sustained effort.

Still nothing.

Tears of frustration began to form behind her eyes and she shut them tighter than ever, grinding her teeth, internally screaming at herself to get a grip, to pull it together, to do what she needed to do. She was so close!

Her panic soon mounted into full-out hysteria as she heard a door open, followed by the approaching footsteps of the Azkaban guards. _Oh God, oh God, please, please, please—please transform! PLEASE!_

But there was no hope of it now; she was too far lost in the madness of terror to accomplish such a complicated feat.

What could she do? There was no alternative, they were going to see her! She was Hermione now, entirely, visually herself, and there was no way to change that. This was something she had not accounted for… or rather, something she had dreaded would happen, but had no solution to provide if things went horribly wrong. And this was wrong—this was all wrong!

She had to hide herself. There was nowhere to go. The cell was so small and bare. It was dark, but not dark enough. No, no, no—the footsteps were getting louder now.

Unable to fathom another option or possibility, Hermione scrambled towards the far right corner of her cell, in the darkest space available and curled in on herself, drawing her knees to her chest. She then tucked as much of her hair as she could into the back of the uniform she was wearing and, with a final, silent plea for mercy, she threw her arms over her head, hoping it was enough to cover herself. She wasn't invisible, obviously, but if she was lucky, maybe she would look like any other unrecognizable figure huddled in the corner.

Surely other inmates did this, slept curled up in the corner. Surely no one would think this behavior strange.

She shivered as she felt Dementors come swooping by, right outside the cell. And then the guards, two of them, walking, quietly talking, closer and closer, booted steps getting louder, until… they passed. And were gone. Just like that, without even a pause.

They probably didn't even look inside, Hermione thought with enormous relief. A few more seconds passed, and she finally let herself relax the smallest bit. She took several slow, deep breaths, and felt her muscles ease out of their rigid tension.

_Now_, she thought simply.

That was it. Her ears grew, her skin sprouted fur, her legs shrank.

For a moment, Hermione let herself fall into the proper mindset of her new form before daring to move. Her animagus form was always difficult to adapt to, and as unstable as her mind already was, any more disorienting trauma might very well put her over the edge.

Once properly situated, Hermione stretched her long back legs, shook herself from head to toe, gearing herself up for the flight—the final race. And then she took off, wriggling between the bars, and scampered down the cellblock towards her eventual freedom.

If her previous escape had felt pressured for time, it was nothing to this. Before, she had only needed to worry about being found by the wandering guards and their Patronuses—she could take however long she needed to hide or find a divergent course. Now, she was really working against the clock.

It was good, then, that the guards had walked by when the did, because that meant the maximum amount of time before they came back by again—and in all likelihood, would notice the disappearance of a very important prisoner.

Hermione had to—_had to_—escape the island before this happened. The very second Snape's disappearance was realized, all manner of alarms would be raised and Hermione would not have a hope in hell of leaving undetected.

With the haunting vision of a Dementor's hooded face descending towards her, its mouth eagerly waiting to suck out her soul, fueling her fear like nothing else in the world, Hermione raced down passage after passage, trying as best she could to remember the path she had taken not even twenty-four hours ago.

It was difficult; she had done most of it through pipes. She made a few wrong turns, and meandered a bit somewhere in the East wing, but by some miracle of divine intervention, she managed to find her way again, and scrambled out the first window she came upon.

Thankfully, this one was much lower to the ground than the one she had previously used, and she was careful enough to avoid bashing her head against the bars.

Once out in the daylight (though it was hardly considered daylight, as the sky was dark gray, roiling with clouds, and a sharp drizzle of rain of rain was falling), Hermione attempted to gather her bearings. She figured she had emerged not far from where she had arrived by broomstick (as Dylan) that morning, and it had been exactly opposite, on the other side of the island, from the place near the water where Hermione was headed, where Harry's Firebolt—hopefully still covered by the invisibility cloak—waited for her, just as she had left it so many hours ago. God, it felt like weeks had passed since then.

With that thought, Hermione took a sharp left, and clambered down the side of the island, weaving in and out of rocks, thankful for her inherent rabbit agility.

Gray, gray, gray, everywhere, she almost couldn't take it; the rocks, the sky, even the water that spanned for miles all around. Hermione felt the color closing in around her as though it were a Dementor itself, sucking all the life and happiness from deep out of the marrow of her bones. (Whatever life was left, anyway).

But the thought of the end drove her on. She just had to make it around the island. She couldn't be too far now.

Hermione jumped and then cowered low to the ground as an actual Dementor whooshed by overhead. Whether it was sniffing her out, or had coincidentally decided to swoop down at just that spot where Hermione was hiding, she didn't know. It had been much too close for her comfort, and she picked up the pace.

Finally, Hermione could see, just a few yards ahead of her and slightly below, the large X she had carved in the boulder. She scurried towards it, hope beginning to kindle in her chest.

There were two Dementors circling high in the air directly above her—maybe close enough to "sense" her if she turned human, but it really was a far distance, and Hermione did not have the time to wait for them to move.

She choreographed her next few steps very carefully, preparing herself for precisely what she needed to do so that she would be able to execute her escape as quickly and efficiently as possible.

First, she nudged as close she could to the spot where she remembered placing the broom, until she could feel the cloak brush lightly against her paw. Then she changed—much faster and much easier than before. It was always easier when going from animal to human. The very split second Hermione felt fully herself again, she shot her arm beneath the cloak, scrabbled around until she had the broom handle clutched firmly in her fist, grabbed the invisibility cloak with her free hand and then kicked the rocks away that were holding it down.

The cloak was instantly taken up in the wind, but Hermione had a good grip, and it stayed with her. Then, feeling ever wary of the two Dementors who-only-knew-where in the clouds above her, she swung her leg over the Firebolt and drew the invisibility cloak, as best she could, close around herself.

She braced herself, and then kicked off the ground as hard as her waning strength would allow, shooting into the sky with a speed that was frankly alarming. In fact, the speed was too great. Either she had kicked off much too hard, or the Firebolt was simply that sensitive, for even as she tried to correct the course of her flight to go forwards instead of upwards, within seconds she flew right passed a hovering Dementor. Only inches to spare.

_NO, NO, NO, NO!_

Hermione hadn't a clue if either of the Dementor's had noticed her and were giving chase—she just darted forward as fast as she dared, even faster than she dared, more terrified of what was surely right behind her, than the churning waters below her.

On and on, she urged the Firebolt forward, even as the wind tore at the invisibility cloak and nearly ripped it from her hand.

The shoreline at the edge of the ocean was getting nearer; she could see the trees now, the gap far in the distance where they were supposed to rendezvous, where Harry—where Snape—was waiting for her. If possible, she put on an even stronger burst of speed, fueled by the thought of the man she had struggled for so long to free, being there to welcome her, actually _there_, safe and alive, close enough to see, and hear, and touch, and kiss.

Hermione shrieked and swerved violently, almost unseating herself, as the massive, flowing figure of a Dementor flew into her path from below. It reached out a hand, but Hermione had swerved just in time and it grasped only empty air.

They followed her! How did they catch up to her already—she was going so fast!

Hermione had no other defense but speed; she didn't have her wand, nor did she have even the slightest sense of mind or adequate happiness to conjure a Patronus even if she did possess a wand and managed somehow to wave it, hold the cloak, and hold the broom, all at the same time.

Another Dementor came down at her from above, its hood pulled back, its gaping mouth ready to attack. She shrieked again and impulsively kicked out with her foot, in an effort to deter it. Her foot caught it right in the middle, where its stomach should have been—but the substance she encountered was not at all what she was expecting. There was something there. Whatever it was it did not feel even remotely like flesh. Instead, it had an enormous amount of give, like the consistency of a rotted pumpkin.

This was a small triumph. Even though her kick had done nothing to eliminate the Dementor as a threat, it opened her pathway again and she pushed the Firebolt straight through into open air. She was racing towards the shore again, wind roaring in her ears. But, with a sudden jerk, the broom stopped. Hermione went flying off the end—managing, somehow, to retain her hold on the broom so that she just hung there by an arm, her entire body dangling hundreds of feet over the ice cold sea.

The invisibility cloak had come off her shoulders, and she only retained her grip on the very edge of it, with just a few fingers.

She looked up and saw that the second Dementor had grabbed the back of her broom, causing it to halt instantly in midair. The first Dementor, the one she had just kicked, was now drifting over to meet her, its bony hands trembling as they reached up to pull back the hood of its robes. Its rancid breath rattled, and even through the wind and the pounding in her head and the overwhelming fear, Hermione could hear it plain as day. That was a sound that could pierce through any amount of noise in the world. Her heart froze over. All the breath left her lungs. She was staring into the face of death now. After all this, after everything she had done the past day, the past month—after having been grasped in death's clutches, and still somehow clawing her way back out—she was really going to be done for this time. Only she wouldn't even be dead, she would be worse than dead.

The Dementor reached out for her. There was nothing Hermione could do to stop it. She couldn't even let go of the broom. She tried to command her hand to loosen, to let her fall. Even drowning in the churning waters below would be preferable to what she was facing now. But her hand was frozen stiff. The invisibility cloak was still clutched in her other hand, and Hermione spared a moment to consider that it was stupid she had cared so much to save it. Did she really value Harry's cloak over her own life?

The Dementor's hands closed over her shoulders.

Did it even matter now? She would have found herself in the same situation whether she had lost the cloak or not. Perhaps if she had taken the initiative and thrown herself off the broom before the Dementor's had the chance to get so close, to freeze her conscious will, to paralyze her so that all she could do was hang there limply and await her imminent demise...

The Dementor's lipless mouth drew closer. Just inches away now. Inches away from never hugging her Mother again, or spending sleepless nights in the Library doing homework, of laboring lovingly over her favorite classes, or laughing with Ginny and Ron and Harry, or growing up and getting married, having children, of seeing, holding, kissing, basking in the devotion of the one and only man she truly—

_"EXPECTO PATRONUM!"_

Hermione felt an instant shockwave of warm energy as a massive, blindingly white object barreled passed her, shooing the two Dementors away in the blink of an instant.

_Hold on, hold on, hold on_, she told herself, as her vision began to blur and the darkness began to close in around her.

She narrowed her eyes, trying hard to focus on the hovering figure, her savior, just a few yards away, flying fast towards her on a broomstick.

She knew that voice.

She knew that silhouette.

_But who, and how did… how did he… I… Oh… my…_It happened very fast. However, Hermione was very focused, and so, for that particular reason, she did not miss it. In fact, she could do nothing but gape, dumbstruck, as she caught a glimpse of the heroic Patronus as it circled back around her and returned, shining and triumphant, to the man's waiting wand.

She had only caught a glimpse—but that glimpse was enough.

The Patronus was one she had never seen before, yet she knew instantly to whom it belonged. Because the silvery white animal had an unmistakable shape. Long, elegant ears, a peculiar, bounding gait—and, this part, Hermione was certain of, because she had seen it just as it disappeared into the man's wand—a small, fluffy, cotton tail.

_His Patronus_, she thought dimly, her body shaking and quivering, her broom beginning to sink in midair because her muscles were near to giving out from such profound and insurmountable exhaustion.

_…It's me._

The broom handle slipped from her grasp.**  
**


	29. Reunion, However Brief

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Hermione fell very fast. No breath to scream. With her eyes closed tight, she was unsure if it was her body or simply her head that was spinning. In any case, it didn't matter—within moments, she felt herself caught, roughly, in midair; strong arms wrapped around her waist, crushing her tightly against a warm, familiar body. Severus. Fearless Severus.

Despite the strength of his embrace, they slowed, but continued to fall—and quite rapidly it felt like. Hermione did not understand for half a beat why this was. Then she realized, with instant clarity, that she had been on the Firebolt. Snape was on Ron's Cleansweep. There was no way it could hold their combined weight.

_Open your eyes_, Hermione commanded herself. And to her surprise, she did. She found herself looking down at gray, white-topped waves hurtling towards her at an alarming speed. In that first suspended moment, she was taken back to a time, months and months ago, when she had found herself in similar peril. Only it had been treetops rushing up to greet her then, and Snape had not only saved her out of mere, grudging obligation, but had, in fact, been the very one to drop her in the first place. That time, he had taken no pains to do anything except deter her death, making minimal efforts to protect her. This time...

Hermione's heart gave a jump as she felt Snape wrap his body around her and turn so that he was between her and the oncoming ocean.

"Don't—" she began to say, but then they hit.

With a momentous crash that knocked every last trace of breath from her lungs, Hermione felt the cold shatter around her, razor sharp, like she had fallen through a thick sheet of ice. Water filled her mouth and her throat as she struggled to gather her bearings and pull herself up to the surface.

Where was he? Where was he? She didn't feel him anymore. His arms were gone. She was tossed violently as an enormous wave picked her up and swept her downwards again. Desperately, she kicked and kicked, reaching upwards with all her strength, trying to find oxygen again. Her clothes dragged at her, entangling her limbs. _Where is he!_

For the briefest of seconds, Hermione's head managed to break the surface. She sucked in one, glorious breath, before another icy wave crashed down on her and forced her beneath the water once more.

Despite the chill and the stinging salt, Hermione forced her eyes open, searching the murky waters frantically for her missing savior.

What if the fall had knocked him out? What if he was drowning right now, silently unconscious and unknowing, unable to save himself? She had to find him!

The water was impossible to see through more than two or three feet on any side, Hermione's lungs burned inside her body, but she continued to swim down, down, flinging her limbs about, hoping against hopes that the current had not carried him too far beyond her grasp.

Then her foot kicked something. A shoulder—a _man's_ shoulder. Furiously, Hermione dove deeper to her right and grabbed a great handful of the man's shirt. Then she swam upwards again, heart pumping, limbs aching, cold permeating every last inch of her being. She struggled, exhaustion beginning to overshadow the strength of her adrenalin rush, and she knew she was beginning to lose control. The light was still so very far above her. She wasn't going to make it.

Then, with the very next kick of her legs, she found herself moving faster, much faster than she had been before—someone had grabbed Snape's other arm and was pulling him, with Hermione in tow, quickly out of the depths.

_Harry!_

Feeling a burst of relief and gratitude, Hermione put in the very last ounce of strength she had to push herself and Snape towards safety. Within moments, they reached the surface again.

Snape sputtered instantly as he emerged from the water. Clearly the fall had not knocked him out, though it had probably dazed him. His legs weren't kicking; Hermione figured it was still the shock of the fall. "I used—" Snape struggled to say, as the heavy, rolling waves tossed the three of them up and down. "I used Granger's wand!" he said loudly over the wind. "I used magic!"

Hermione put it together before Harry did. "The Ministry!" She looked at Harry, whose eyes were wide and fearful in response. _Where are his glasses? _she thought stupidly. And how had he gotten here so fast? How had he been there to rescue them when, as Hermione knew very well, they had no third broom?

Hermione looked past Harry's shoulder as they crested the top of a particularly large wave, and she saw the shore, not far off. In fact it was no more than a few minutes' swim from were they were now. He must have seen Hermione's peril when the Dementor's attacked and anticipated her fall. He had to have jumped into the ocean well before she had actually fallen in order to be here so fast. He had done so just to be a fail safe, just in case. She felt such an enormous rush of gratitude for his devotion and his bravery, but there was no time to express it…

"The Ministry—They'll be here within—I don't know, but _very soon_!" Hermione shouted at him. "We have to hide!" She took a firmer hold of Snape's arm and struck out at once towards land.

"Where's the Firebolt!" Harry yelled back.

Hermione halted.

"I've got the Cleansweep!" He held up the handle (the rest was still beneath the water), and Hermione realized with a jolt, that he had been using it to propel her and Snape out of the depths—which explained how they had moved so fast. Now he was about to use it to pull them towards the shore.

He paused when Hermione's face fell, and she said back, her voice hoarse and small against the gales of wind, "I don't know, Harry, I couldn't hold it!"

"What about my dad's cloak?"

"Harry, I—Oh, Harry, I lost it! I'm so sorry I—"

"No you didn't," Snape retorted suddenly, struggling to pull his arm out of Hermione's grasp.

She understood why a moment later as Snape's hand emerged from the waters holding it in his fist. "I've got the cloak!"

Had they been in any other situation, had she the strength and the time and the gall to do so, Hermione would have thrown her arms around him with glee.

But they had only minutes at best to get themselves to shore and hidden before they were beset by Ministry officials (or worse, Death Eaters) looking for an escaped Azkaban prisoner and runaway Hogwarts students. So everyone shut there mouths, clung together, and let the Cleansweep drag them swiftly through the frigid water.

Quite obviously, none of this had been part of the original plan. Still, as Hermione saw it, Snape was free, and that was the most important part. They would just have to improvise the rest. Take it one step at a time. Prioritize. The priority for now: reach the shore. The next step: hide. The next: …Well, she'd think about that later.

It took much longer to fight against the waves than Hermione anticipated. It soon became apparent that they were not going to be able to make it out of the ocean before someone at the Ministry figured out their coordinates and came after them, probably by Apparating somewhere on the beach. Therefore, the moment Snape's long legs could reach the ocean floor, Harry and Hermione, still clinging on either side to his arms, each took an edge of the cloak and pulled it over all three of them—with Snape in the middle, dragging them all forward.

Hermione was instantly overwhelmed with the smell of salt, the weight of the sodden cloak (which was usually very light) pressing down upon her. She supposed it was also very cold, but her whole body was so numb by now, her nose and cheeks icy beyond feeling. Her whole body was overcome with fervid shivering, her teeth chattering—in fact all three of their teeth were chattering. That was to be expected. There was nothing to do about it.

There was no hope of Harry hiding the broom under the cloak with them. Instead, Harry gave it to Snape, who held it down by his side, beneath the water and out of sight.

Just as feared (and, thankfully, predicted), there were seven loud cracks, in quick succession, near the edge of the forest, long before Harry, Hermione and Snape had made it to dry land.

_Seven Aurors_! Hermione thought, aghast, as the intimidating wizard fighters Apparated before them, wands already out and ready for action.

Hermione searched their faces but did not recognize any of them. Even if she had recognized one of them—even if, say, Tonks, had been among them—she would not have risked exposure.

Once both Harry and Hermione were able to reach the bottom as well, instead of continuing forward, out of the ocean, the three turned and followed the shoreline sideways, away from the searching Aurors. If they took even one step on the sand, their footprints would give them away instantly.

So they continued on for the better part of an hour, waist deep in pulsing, icy, salty water, their legs shaking from exhaustion, the rest of their body shaking from the cold.

They didn't risk speech—in any case, they were all too tired to form words. Hermione and Snape most of all.

Hermione concentrated only on putting one foot in front of the other, of keeping her hold on Snape's arm and the edge of the invisibility cloak at her side. She supposed if she ever stopped—for even a moment—if she even stopped to _think _about how bruised and battered and worn out her body was, she would simply faint dead away. She couldn't do that to Harry and Snape; if she gave up now, she would be an almost impossible burden, and all their work might be for nothing.

And so it went. So she continued.

Finally, Snape stopped walking, causing the other two to halt with him. He jerked his head, indicating that they should think about making a break towards dry land. They were well out of reach of Death Eaters, Aurors, and Dementors by now, and the tree line was closer to the beach than it had been in the past half hour.

Hermione and Harry nodded. Then they all started dragging themselves out of the sea.

Once the water had receded enough for her to feel the full weight of her body, Hermione nearly collapsed. She hadn't realized how much the water had done to keep her afloat and ease the tension in her joints, the aching muscles in her legs. Somehow, she managed to compartmentalize. She just… stowed it all away. The pain and the exhaustion; it was like she just put all up on a shelf and said, _I'll deal with you later_, before continuing blindly forward, systematically, robotically, tirelessly.

They kept the cloak over themselves until they were well into the forest; in fact they were less than a dozen yards away from their campsite, when they had to stop. Hermione ducked out from underneath the cloak, stumbled away a few feet before falling heavily against the side of a tree, bending over, and promptly emptying the contents of her stomach amongst the leaves at her feet.

Harry rushed to her side.

"It's all that shaking," he said roughly. His voice sounded just as tired as Hermione felt. He put a hand on her back and rubbed gently. "We need to get you warm somewhere, and dry. You've got to lie down before you fall down."

Hermione wiped her mouth on her sleeve. "I… Oh wait…" She threw up again. Harry continued to rub her back. Her face felt flushed and warm. "I hit my head… a couple times," she said at last. "Back in—on the island. Quite hard, I think."

"You did what?" Snape's voice sounded sharp but unreadable somewhere behind her.

Harry answered. "She said she hit her head a few times. Hard—she said. What does that mean? Do you think she has a concussion? Hermione, do you think you—"

"I'm fine, Harry. It was a while ago. Really. Let's…" She felt a wave of dizziness fall over her. It took a second for the world to right itself again. "Let's just… get somewhere. Somewhere safe. As soon as possible."

"Yeah, but I mean… how? We haven't got the brooms. It's daylight and the cloak isn't going to help. All we can do is… Do you think we could Apparate?"

Hermione leaned back against the tree, shakily, and looked Harry straight in the eye. "I can't. Can you?"

"No," he replied. "But Snape can."

"What does that—"

"Side-Along apparition."

Hermione felt as though her heart skipped a beat. There was no way Snape could pull that off. "Oh, but Harry," she breathed. "You don't know what he's been through these past—He couldn't possibly—"

"I can do it."

Hermione turned to look at Snape as he set down the cloak and the Cleansweep and took a firm step towards them. His back was straight, defiant. Even though his skin was so deathly pale it almost seemed as white as the streak in his now markedly longer black hair, there was no denying that his jaw was firm beneath his beard. His eyes were aflame with steeled resolve. He looked like a wild man, Hermione thought. A wild man with a tempered will and a cool intellect that she had so grown to know and love. His mind was set, and his voice was determined. "Where do we need to go?"

Hermione couldn't help it; her heart was swept away with care and admiration for this man, this man who had wrapped himself around her and taken the blow of their fall. Merlin only knew how much that was hurting him. And he had been months in Azkaban—_months_—and Hermione had nearly lost her mind with less than twenty-four hours behind those stone walls. "Professor, I can't say how much it means for you to offer, and, frankly, how much it would help if you could. But surely it would be best—I mean, surely you can't be up to—"

"Don't, Granger," he snapped suddenly, cutting her off, "delude yourself into thinking you can tell me what I am or am not capable of doing."

Harry straightened immediately. "There is no need to take that tone," he said darkly.

"Excuse me, Potter, but what business is it of yours how I dictate my tone? _Thank you _for identifying the least pressing matter available to us in our current situation."

Harry, already rubbed quite raw, it would seem (perhaps he and Snape had not gotten along very well in the five hours it took for Hermione's Polyjuice to wear off and escape the prison), positively exploded. "How can you—What the hell is wrong with—Do you even realize what Hermione went through to—You can't even say THANK YOU, you ungrateful—"

Hermione, desperate to control what was fast promising to get out of control, put a hand on Harry's shoulder. "No, it's alright, he's just tired, OK, and I'm… Oh, Harry, I'm exhausted. Let's please just make it to the campsite and pack up our stuff so we can get out of here. Please."

Both Harry and Snape tensed, eyeing each other with clear disdain. Then it was Snape who looked away first, so that he could pick up the broom and cloak again and walk—shakily, yet proudly—towards their destination.

Harry put Hermione's arm around his shoulder, helping her as they followed suit.

Hermione groaned as they reached their campsite and found the duffle bag in torn ruins. Clearly some animal had gotten into it, gobbling up their last scraps of food and scattering what remained of their clothes and supplies all over the damp, mossy ground.

"I'll take care of it," said Harry immediately, gently removing Hermione's arm from around his shoulders. "You sit down."

Hermione remained standing, even after Harry moved away and began picking up their strewn belongings—among them, his glasses.

"No, I'll stand," she said faintly. "I'm afraid if I sit down I won't be able to get back up."

"There's something at your feet, Granger," said Snape, who was currently tucking the invisibility cloak back into what remained of the tattered duffle bag.

Hermione looked down… and then sighed with deep relief. It was one of their canteens. And as she bent down to pick it up, felt it slosh heavily, indicating that it was still mostly full, she realized how incredibly thirsty she was. The first few sips she used to simply swish around in her mouth before spitting the water back out, rigorously cleaning out the lingering taste of sickness and seawater. Then she drank greedily, feeling much more refreshed as some of the horrible throbbing in her head began to recede slightly.

Then she tossed the canteen to Snape, who drank several mouthfuls before tossing it to Harry, who drank none. "Save it," he said, throwing it right back to Snape.

Snape shrugged and put it in the duffle bag with the cloak and a few other articles of clothing they had already managed to salvage.

Gathering their things took all of ten minutes. By then, the three of them had faded so much that they barely had the strength it took to walk towards each other and meet up again for Snape's attempt at Side-Along Apparition.

Harry held the duffle bag. Snape, the Cleansweep.

They all looked at each other for a minute, until Hermione finally spoke up. "The Shrieking Shack," she said. "It's the best we've got, and Sev—Professor Snape knows the space, so it will be easier for him to take us there."

Harry nodded firmly. "And we can get back to Hogwarts quickly and undetected when we need to. Perfect, Hermione." He gave her a tired, crooked smile. "How is it, after all you've been through, half-drowned, concussed, hung-over and moments from collapsing, you've _still _got all the answers?"

Hermione snorted and shook her head. "Oh, I don't know. Divine inspiration, I guess."

"Can we get on with it," growled Snape. He was swaying slightly, as though dizzy.

Hermione barely restrained herself from reaching out to touch him. She so dearly wanted to offer him some tender show of support.

But Harry was there, Harry was watching. And Harry, most assuredly, could not know her true feelings.

Harry gave Hermione a gentle push. "Alright, Hermione, you go first."

Snape shook his head. "No, Potter. You should go."

"Why?" said both Harry and Hermione at once.

"Do you have your wand, Potter?"

"Yeah, right here."

Hermione's heart sank. "I don't," she said softly.

Harry shot an accusatory look at Snape. "You lost her wand?"

Snape simply shrugged.

Harry's eyes narrowed, though he did not press the matter. "Alright," he agreed. "Good idea. I'll go first. If there's danger, we can take care of it."

"But—" Hermione began to protest.

Harry cut her off. "If there's danger," he repeated, "we'll come right back, and then figure out our next step from there. We won't leave you stranded here, Hermione, I promise."

Hermione didn't know what to say. She was overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions—not the least of which was sheer delirium—and there were no possible words in the world to express how much she loved these two men standing before her. "Be safe," was all she could manage. She cleared her throat, tears starting to prick the corners of her eyes. "Please," she added firmly. "Especially you, Professor. Damn it all if I lose either of you now to a splinching!"

They all shared wry smiles. Well, Hermione and Harry did. Snape's mouth merely twitched, as though suggesting that somehow, somewhere, in the back of his mind, he was, perhaps, somewhat, half-way, mildly amused.

Then everyone was serious again.

Hermione took a step back, giving them space, clutching her arms around herself and trying to suppress the new wave of shivers threatening to overtake her.

Harry strode forward and linked arms with Snape. They both looked at Hermione for half a second, and then they closed their eyes.

"On three, Potter," Snape said.

Harry nodded.

"One…Two…Three!"

Then Snape turned sharply, yanking Harry along—and with a loud pop, they vanished.

Hermione staggered backwards, surprised despite herself at the suddenness of their disappearance.

The forest was eerily quiet now. In the distance she could hear small animals ferreting around in the undergrowth, the lonely caw of a far off crow. Her senses were hyper-aware for any indication, any warning at all that something dangerous might be nearby.

If she was found now—by anything, be it Dementor, Auror, Death Eater, or rabid bear—she would be entirely defenseless. She was all but naked in her sodden, salt-encrusted prison uniform, her feet bare and aching from the tramp through the woods. Even if she had her wand, Hermione strongly doubted she would be able to so much as lift it past her waistline.

The seconds ticked by. Hermione waited, fretting over the possibilities of what might have befallen Harry and Snape.

What if there was some danger waiting for them at the Shrieking Shack? What if they were caught unprepared? What if there were Death Eaters—what if among them was Voldemort himself? Hermione was the one who had come up with the idea; if something happened to them, it would be entirely her doing. Her fault for not properly predicting the danger. For sending them blindly into a trap. Just like she had done with Sirius! Just like Sirius! She had lingered, and he had gone ahead. She had survived and he had been killed. And _he _had been perfectly healthy and rested. Snape and Harry were in no condition to fight—with wands or otherwise.

And what if Snape had not been able to get them there? What if he _had _splinched them? Or if he miscalculated—even by a few feet. He could Apparate them outside the house, and any passing stranger could see them, identify them, call the Ministry, and the guards, and the Dementors and—

Suddenly, with a loud crack, Snape materialized in front of her.

Hermione let out a shuddering sob of relief.

Snape took a step towards her. "It's safe," he said simply. "Quiet and undisturbed."

Hermione cleared her throat, trying hard to suppress the wave of tears beginning to well up behind her eyes, the sobs catching in her throat. "That's—good," she managed to hiccup.

Without saying a word, Snape reached up and undid the clasp holding the robe around his shoulders. It was the same one he had been wearing since he turned into Dylan and Hermione had thrown it over him, six hours ago, back in Azkaban. Then, so tenderly, she barely felt the fabric touch her skin, Snape wrapped it around Hermione's shoulders.

She had no words.

Snape did. "Of course…" He reached forward and pulled something out of one of the pockets of the robe. "I did not lose your wand," he said in a stony, unreadable voice. "Even in such a state as I am, I would never be so absent minded." He held up her dear, familiar, cherrywood wand to confirm its presence. Then, with a slight of his hand, he slipped it back into her pocket.

She was bewildered. "But you said… But then… then why did you…"

"Because," he replied, looking down at her, dark eyes boring into hers. "I wanted Potter to go first."

Hermione felt dizzy—and this time, not from exhaustion. From something else entirely. "Why?" she asked softly, somehow knowing, anticipating, aching for exactly what happened next.

"So I could do this—"

With that, Snape grabbed Hermione's wrist, pulled her against him and then, tenderly, drew her face to his. His broad palm was warm and rough against her cheek. His nose was inches from hers, his eyes closed, their foreheads touching as he breathed her in. Then he kissed her. He kissed her so fiercely, so long and deep. His lips were soft but possessive on hers, his tongue hot as he thrust into her mouth. He pushed against her, hungry and desperate for her, every inch of her, and Hermione responded with equal fervor. It stunned her to realize how much she had missed the taste of him, how she missed the soft sounds of pleasure he made in the back of his throat whenever she slid her fingers up the nape of his neck and into his hair, breathing hard as she pulled him closer, kissed him even deeper.

They were so intertwined in that moment, two souls so often saved by the other, it was impossible to keep count. They gave and took in equal amounts, not speaking, for there were no words to adequately facilitate what they were truly feeling for each other in that moment.

Barely aware of what she was doing, only knowing it was right, Hermione yanked her wrist out of Snape's grip, grabbed his hand, and then pressed it, hard, against her breast. All she knew was that she wanted to feel him—wanted him to feel her.

His hand at her neck immediately slipped down and around to the small of her back, pressing her even more firmly against him. She felt shot with pleasure to feel the unyielding strength of his arm, and his large, familiar hand on her breast, molding to her perfectly, so eager to accept her offer, to reciprocate her desire.

Finally, when it was simply too much for both of them, he broke their kiss, breath ragged, and whispered into her ear, "Don't ever… don't ever…" unable, through the overwhelming tidal wave of emotions running through him, to finish the sentence.

_Leave again. Endanger yourself again._

Hermione knew what he meant, she didn't need him to finish it. As always, she knew what truly lay behind his words. And she answered in kind. "I won't," she choked into his chest. "If you won't."

They remained that way for a minute or two, simply holding each other, basking in the sheer, remarkable wonder of them being alive and unharmed, and in each other's arms.

"We have to go," Snape said finally.

Hermione didn't want to go. She didn't want this moment to be over, ever. "Let's stay," she pleaded. "A little longer, just a little bit longer."

"What about Potter?"

Hermione looked up at him and quirked a brief smile as she rubbed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Oh just tell him you had to wait while I yacked in the bushes again."

Snape let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. "Quite the poet, as ever, I see."

Hermione couldn't help it, she laughed. And then pulled away, disentangling herself from his embrace. "Alright," she conceded. "Alright, then, let's go. Merlin knows I could use a safe place to rest."

Snape gave her playful sniff. "And bathe."

Her mouth fell open. "Speak for yourself!" she sputtered back.

Snape simply chuckled again in return and then put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her to him. "Hold tight," he whispered into her hair.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, and did as he commanded.

"On three."

She nodded.

"One… two…"

With Snape's final, "three!" and a last, resonating pop, Hermione and Snape left behind the forest across the sea from Azkaban Prison, and took one more step towards the comfort and safety that hopefully still waited for them within the golden halls and protective walls of Hogwarts School.


	30. What Kind of Journey Has it Been

**Chapter Thirty**

Granger's arms around him, her small frame enfolded in his; Severus hardly had time to register what feelings this inspired in him, for a moment later—with all the abruptness of a single blink—they had materialized back in the Shrieking Shack. Except, they were…

_Upstairs… Hm_, Severus thought, puzzled. He had meant to arrive in the dilapidated sitting room on the first floor, in order to allow for the possibility that he and Granger might secure one final, fleeting chance to be alone before the unwitting presence of wretched Potter forced them apart.

However, they were not alone, they were not downstairs. They were upstairs, just inside the small bedroom where Potter was now standing. Severus had miscalculated their Apparition somehow. A fact he found momentarily disconcerting, if not disappointing.

But, seeing as neither he nor Granger were bereft of any limbs, and they seemed to be in the correct building altogether, he forgave himself this slight error and chalked it up to a very long, very exhausting, eighty-seven days… Or rather, he figured, he could just as easily shift the fault of this blunder to Granger. She was, after all, very often to blame for any poor decision or performance made on his part. This time in particular. She had grabbed his hand and invited him touch her, forced his desire, and by doing so, had awoken such a deep unidentifiable something within him—some weakness, he didn't know what—that moved him beyond words. He hadn't even been able to speak. She had done that to him.

It wasn't his fault they were in the wrong room. She had addled his senses. She was good at that.

The moment the floor was solid beneath their feet, and after the split second it took for Severus to realize where they were, he immediately shoved Granger away, feeling the tight hold she previously had around his waist break and then disappear.

Potter stepped forward to aid Granger as she stumbled, meanwhile giving Severus a mighty glare.

"Where are you going?" Potter said, a bit threateningly, as Severus turned and made as though to leave the room.

Severus paused at the threshold. "To inspect the perimeter—and any other dark corner where some unpleasant entity might be lurking."

"I already went through the place twice."

"Yes," Severus replied snidely. "Forgive me if I find that thought less than comforting." Then, without waiting for Potter's reply, he walked out of the room and down the hallway, keen eyes already searching for any hint of potential danger, or trap, or weakness, or threat. To all appearances, Severus was double checking the security of the house—and he was, admittedly, doing this to the best of his ability—but the real reason he had left the room was to have a moment alone so that he might collect himself again, in more ways than one. In all possible ways. He felt as close as he ever had in his life to coming unspooled entirely. He was on the very brink of losing his mind—he had to be—there was no way around it. There were more than a few screws that had come loose during his stay in Azkaban, and he could only hope that he had the strength to tighten them into place again.

Yet, as he walked, despite the overwhelming instability of reality and existence he felt imbedded within him, surrounding him, he managed to retain a very definite grip, somehow, on himself.

He was certain that he should be all but dead on his feet, moments from collapsing into a deep, impenetrable coma. But he felt oddly alert and awake. There was no denying that he was in one bitch of a mental tangle, every thought seeming to be knotted impossibly with each of his other thoughts so that coherency was all but unattainable. However, the heavy weight of the ever-constant presence of Dementors had been lifted from his soul. He felt newly energized by his surroundings, which, though covered thickly in grime and decay and Merlin knew what else, seemed so much brighter than before, and clearer. He was still anxious, yes, they were not out of danger, certainly, but his most debilitating anxieties had left him. That feeling of utter, horrible, uselessness, pointlessness of existence. He was free again now, important again, possessing information and ready to serve a purpose, to serve his fellow Order members.

Severus paused at one of the windows on the first floor of the house and stared out at the barren front lawn. He remained a safe distance from the glass, well into the shadows of the room so as not to be seen by passersby (though he doubted very seriously that anything was visible through the dust caked so liberally upon the window pane from either side).

As he stood there, breathing deeply, flexing out his composure and settling as best he could back into the Severus he had come to know and understand—the stoic pillar of intellect and resolve, objective assessment yielding informed and deliberate judgment—he began to notice a piece of his mind that was… not entirely his.

With all the mental dexterity of a sparrow, he ghosted over the hopeless mess of knots his brain had managed to weave itself into during the past three months, and alighted upon this new space, these new memories. He recognized where he was immediately. He was within a small pocket of Granger's memories.

Back in his prison cell, when Granger had come to him in Animagus form, incapacitated with terror and unable to transfer her thoughts through Legilimency, he had done what one should never do: He had enveloped the vast majority of the girl's thoughts and swept them, recklessly, into his own mind. At the time, he had managed to sift through them and pluck out the important information relevant to their escape, but the rest he had simply shoved, as best he could, to the back of his consciousness.

Obviously, at some point or another, he was going to have to sort this out—diffuse what he had taken from her and attempt to keep it from assimilating into the rest of his memories and thoughts. He did not want to confuse them with his own recollections, his own feelings.

That was a task for later, however. For now, he allowed himself to settle into this mental space and simply… experience her. Her worries, her desires, her aspirations, her devotion and affection. For him. Her affection for him.

He was momentarily stunned by the depth of it—and the pristine, unquestioning purity of it.

Unsettling, but… and he admitted this without hesitation… wonderful.

Severus stood just so, still as a stone statue, watching the pale orange light of a fading dusk, for as long as he dared. And then he shook his head, took a breath, and walked calmly back up the creaking stairs.

* * *

Hermione and Harry had each changed into dry clothes and were settled down as best they could on the dusty floorboards, talking quietly, by the time Snape reentered the room.

He was still damp, reeking of salt water. He closed the door behind himself and then turned to face them. He looked… tired, Hermione thought, did not even begin to cover it.

She cleared her throat, eased onto her feet, and approached Snape with the last bundle of dry clothes they had managed to salvage from their campsite. It was an extra pair of Harry's jeans and the sweater Harry hated, the one Hermione had worn only a few days ago (it seemed like _years_) when she had interviewed at the Ministry's Azkaban Office.

"Um… It… might be a bit small, Professor. It's all we've got left."

Snape stared at the bundle Hermione held out to him with his eyes narrowed apprehensively. She thought for a moment he was going to refuse—but, with something similar to a strangled snarl, Snape snatched the jeans and sweater from Hermione's hands, and stalked out of the room.

Hermione looked at Harry and shrugged, smiling weakly. Harry did not smile back.

A few minutes later, Snape returned.

He should have looked ridiculous, Hermione thought, and yet, somehow, he did not. He was so thin and worn, his hair so tangled and matted, his beard grown out, that he looked more like a tragic hero, or a castaway from a deserted island, years after the ship had sunk and all other crew had been lost.

Snape held up the ragged Azkaban prison uniform clenched in his fist. "Anyone have a light?" he asked gruffly.

"Actually," Hermione replied, "we do. We've got matches in the bag."

With a swift flick of his wrist, Snape threw the soggy wad of material into the dilapidated fireplace on his right. "Good. The moment that dries, I intend on immediately setting fire to it." He scanned the room, his eyes lingering on a half-collapsed four-poster bed in the corner. "Is that the only one?"

"Yes," Harry said. "I've beaten off the dust mostly, I wouldn't trust the sheets, but the cover looks alright." He turned to Hermione. "It's time for you to sleep. I'll take first watch. Sn… Professor Snape can sleep too. If he wants."

"How _magnanimous _of you, Potter," Snape snarled.

Hermione didn't care. She didn't care if they bickered, or fought, or landed punches, or tore the whole damn house down upon their heads. There was a bed. A bed. And she walked towards it as though half-dead (perhaps she was, at that).

Dimly, she heard Snape say from behind her, "Wake me in a few hours. No more than four. Three, perhaps, but two is not enough."

Hermione had crawled on top of the bed. It smelled like rotted wood, and grime, and she would be caked with dust in a matter of minutes, and insects, and bugger it all, it was softer than the floor, so she welcomed it all the same.

"Then, we'll talk," said Harry.

Snape had sunk down in a sitting position on the other side of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his neck bent as though the task of holding up his head was almost beyond him.

Hermione yawned hugely. Her head was _pounding_. "T-talk about what?" she managed.

"Bloody hell, Hermione, what do you think? What the hell do you think we busted him out of Azkaban for in the first place?"

Hermione had just enough sense of mind left to feel a sharp stab of anguish at Harry's words. She had forgotten. For a moment, she had forgotten that Harry's only motivation in rescuing Snape was in no way correlated to her own. Harry wanted Snape's information. That was all. Harry wanted to find Voldemort.

As for Snape's response, he simply swung his legs up onto the bed and reclined back against the headboard. "Stop it, Potter," he drawled, "you're making me all teary-eyed with gratitude."

The world was starting to get blurry, her eyelids beginning to droop beyond her control, but Hermione continued to fight it. "Shall I take a watch too? I can go after Harry."

"NO," said both Harry and Snape, immediately, together.

Harry looked at Snape with a wary expression.

Hermione had heard it too. There had been an undertone of deep concern in Snape's voice.

Snape was quick to amend: "At the risk of offending sensitive sensibilities, Granger," he said snidely, "I'd rather not have to rely on _you_ to watch over my unconscious body. I'll take my chances with the wonder idiot who occasionally waves his wand and manages to hit things."

"Right," Harry fired back, "unlike you, who occasionally waves the killing curse and manages to hit—"

"Oh shut up, the both of you!" Hermione snapped. Then she fell backwards onto the bed, and, just like that, slipped instantly into unconscious exhaustion.

* * *

Harry glared at Snape, almost willing him to give a reason. Willing him to cross the line so that he could leap to his feet, run up the side of the bed, and then punch him very hard in the face.

But Snape merely stared back, his dark eyes filled with silent loathing. Then he too stretched himself out on the bed, took a deep, rattling breath, and appeared to fall immediately asleep.

Harry gripped his wand tightly and leaned back against the wall, eyes now trained upon the door.

Hermione had been taken aback by his outburst. Even through her haze of exhaustion, surprise had registered on her face at the unfeeling cruelness of his response about Snape's escape. Harry felt a small flash of guilt in this regard—but it was only a small flash. He had forgotten that Hermione's reasons for rescuing Snape were not necessarily correlated with his own. She had simply… cared. That was just her way. She cared about people. Harry knew with blinding clarity that if Flitwick were imprisoned, or Professor McGonagall, she would have acted the same.

Harry smiled and shook his head.

Hermione. Strange, of course. But certainly a special sort of girl.

* * *

He was back. He was there again in Pruitt cottage, reclining upon the sofa in the study with a fire blazing merrily in the fireplace. The air smelled thickly of pine, of comfort, and cold weather kept at bay.

He felt wonderful, he felt… free.

Severus stretched his long arms over his head. Then he smiled.

The door was creaking open. He heard the soft patter of footsteps, and all of a sudden, Granger was there, at his side.

She looked a bit different than usual—paler, thinner, more unkempt and with deep circles under her eyes—but she was smiling too.

"Is this your dream or mine?" she asked, her bushy hair all tumbled around her face and shoulders. She was wearing that dress he remembered so distinctly, the one he had pictured so many, many times in moments of despair, remembering how she had been wearing it the day he first realized how badly he wanted to kiss her. A little pink sundress. Careworn fabric. Heart-shaped neckline. It was just as he remembered.

Severus gave a small gesture with his hand, beckoning her to him. She obeyed, crawling up on the sofa and settling down on top of him, her head on his chest, as his arms wrapped around her warm body.

"I think it's both," he replied.

She snuggled against him and he inhaled the sweet scent of her hair. Honey brown hair.

She stroked his arm, which was smooth and bare. The dark mark had disappeared—It was never there, in these dreams.

Severus kissed her temple, luxuriating in the overwhelming feel of her, of the affection he had for her, and she for him.

She raised her head and leaned in to kiss his lips, so tender and sweet. Then she pulled back, her eyes twinkling. She looked impossibly happy, almost giggling as she said, "Your beard is gone."

He did not reply, and his expression had become neutral again; smiles did not come so easily to him as they did to her. But he brushed his knuckles along her cheek. His thumb lightly traced the swell of her bottom lip.

Hermione's eyebrow quirked as though she were about to say something, or kiss him again, he wasn't sure—he never found out, because, suddenly, she began to falter. Her expression changed, her eyebrows furrowed. "I'm—I don't feel so…" Her body was growing hot and her cheeks were very red. A sheen of sweat had developed on her forehead.

Severus sat up, his hands on Hermione's shoulders, his chest tight. "What is it?"

"Trust me, it's not anything you're doing… I…"

"Hermione," he said sharply as her eyes fell closed. He gave her a soft shake. "Hermione."

She did not respond.

"Hermione! Hermione! Her—"

Snape woke suddenly to Potter shaking him roughly, looking worried.

"There's something wrong with Hermione," Potter said—though Severus had not needed him to say so.

In a flash, Severus rolled over to see Hermione lying beside him, curled in on herself, shaking. Her face and neck were slicked with sweat and her cheeks were dangerously flushed. Severus put a hand to her forehead. He frowned deeply and grasped her wrist in order to feel for her pulse.

"What do you think?" pressed Potter, moving around to Hermione's side of the bed. "I suppose it could just be a fever, but you know what she went through, not sleeping or eating right for months. Even in the past twenty-four hours alone she's flown through a rainstorm, changed in and out of her Animagus form more times than can possibly be healthy. She's been over-intoxicated, concussed, attacked by Dementors, and it's a wonder none of us has hypothermia, really—not to mention that fall she took."

Severus flicked a brief glance in Potter's direction. "We both took that fall."

"Right." The boy had the sense to sound a bit sheepish. "She's going to be fine, though, right? Just needs rest, maybe… right?"

Severus drew back and appraised Hermione silently. Then he said, "I think she needs Poppy."

"Not… Madam Pomfrey? Surely not, surely she…" Potter reached out and grasped Hermione's shoulder. "No," he amended. "Of course, even just to be safe, of course you're right. We should get her to the hospital wing. But we can't right now, it's broad daylight, students are everywhere—we can't risk the Ministry finding out where she is… Do you think there's any chance we could wait until evening?"

Severus paused again before answering, suffering a moment of indecision. Finally, he said, "Yes. I think so."

Potter looked relieved.

Then he looked suspicious.

His green eyes lingered on Severus's hand, still grasping Hermione's slender wrist in a tender grip.

Severus released her at once, as Potter opened his mouth.

But the boy seemed unable to formulate what he was thinking. Perhaps he didn't know what he was thinking. He was confused. Momentarily disoriented, even.

To deflect, Severus prepared a scathing insult as he settled back down to sleep again. "Well," he said shortly, "if we've quite finished with—"

Before he could finish, there came a loud bang from downstairs, muffled voices, and then footsteps.

Severus fell deathly silent. Potter became motionless as well, as they both strained their ears against a rising tide of panic to hear… laughter. Giggles. Severus could make out small snippets of the intruders' conversation. They were very loud and not at all cautious or menacing. Within moments, he had pieced together the situation: A pair of local children, not yet eleven years old (clearly, as they would otherwise have been enrolled at Hogwarts) had taken it upon themselves to honor a dare in which they were challenged to brave the mysterious, untold horrors of the Shrieking Shack. And while it was clear that no harm would come from such persons directly, neither Severus nor Potter were in a position to use their wands. Which meant that they were therefore unable to _obliviate _away their presence from the children's minds should they be seen.

Severus locked eyes with Potter, who knew immediately what to do.

"Hide," he said.

Severus nodded sharply and whispered, "I'll get the girl, Potter. You… get everything else."

It was a testament to the peril of their situation that Potter did not question his orders. The boy scampered immediately over to where their belongings lay strewn about on the floor and quickly, silently, began to pack them all back into the duffle bag.

Hermione groaned softly beside him, and Severus turned to her. He paused a moment to find his strength. Even his bones felt weary. Then – quite easily, as it turned out – he scooped her into his arms. She was much lighter than he remembered, worryingly so, and on fire with fever.

Hermione's hand seized Severus's shirt collar in a weak grip as he shifted her about, gathering her as close and as safely to his chest as he could.

By the time Severus was ready, Potter had assembled the bag, reclaimed the long-suffering Cleansweep, and was waiting for his former professor by the door.

Severus allowed Potter to lead the way out into the hall.

Silent as shadows, they crept their way down the stairs, straining their ears every moment for signs that the children had not strayed and were still preoccupied in the entrance room on the other side of the house.

They made it to the trap door without incident and proceeded to hide in the underground tunnel beneath the Whomping Willow—a tunnel that Severus knew only too well. And which Potter knew, too, he supposed.

Severus followed Potter's hunched figure on and on through the dank and humid darkness until they were near enough to the exit that they could see a single shaft of sunlight not more than fifty feet away.

"Is she awake?" Potter asked as he set down the bag and the broom on the dirt floor.

Severus whispered into her ear, "Granger, there's a cockroach in your hair."

"Fuck off," she muttered into his shoulder.

"She's awake," Severus said aloud, suppressing a small smile.

Potter moved a step closer, but did not seem extraordinarily keen on entering Severus's immediate proximity. "Hermione," he said rather loudly and slowly, as though speaking to a child. "We're in the tunnel now, beneath the Whomping Willow. We're going to try to figure out what to do next."

"Mmmphhh," Hermione grunted.

Potter looked a bit hesitant. "Er… What now?"

"We wait," replied Severus.

Potter leaned against the side of the tunnel, his wand out and ready. "Alright," he said. "If you'd like, you… uh… you can go back to sleep. I mean," he continued hastily as Severus narrowed his eyes, "it's just that I promised you at least three hours and you were only asleep for an hour and a half before I woke you, so…"

"Right, then," Severus replied. "Wake me in four hours."

"_Four _hours?"

"Yes. Four hours. I need rest, Potter, I'll be the first to admit. Perhaps if certain children had somehow managed in all their Gryffindor, sword-wielding glory to acquire the simple skill of Apparition, I would not have had to burden myself with—"

"Alright, alright," Potter cut him off loudly. "Sleep all you want. I'm not tired. I can keep watch."

"A thousand pardons if I don't fall to the ground and kiss your feet in praise. Bad knees, you know."

Potter did not reply.

So Severus turned away and looked down into the face of the girl in his arms (fast asleep now)… and realized that he did not want to release her. He supposed that he must, of course: Partly because Potter was already confused enough about their relationship to warrant concern, but mostly because Severus feared he very well might collapse from exhaustion any moment, and he would bring further harm to the girl in doing so.

Carefully, slowly, though every muscle in his body protested in agony, Severus lowered himself and Granger to the ground. Then he settled her next to him so that they both were able to prop themselves into a sitting position against the tunnel wall. Hopefully, this would allow them to rest for the remainder of the day.

Severus folded his arms across his chest, took one last glance at Potter standing vigilant at his post, and then he closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Hermione gradually began to emerge from the haze of her fever as the day progressed. By the time the sun had fully set, she was up and about again, walking and talking and ready for their next course of action.

She was still tired, obviously. Though this was greatly alleviated by the fact that Harry and Snape, together, had managed to plan the rest of their infiltration into Hogwarts—_and _managed not to kill each other in the process.

At some point during Hermione's delirious sleep, Snape had awoken and he and Harry had talked. It was determined that Snape should stand guard while Harry, safely under the invisibility cloak, would sneak off to the steal another broom from the Gryffindor locker room. Harry had done so immediately and then returned half an hour later, flushed with triumph; dumb luck was on their side again. Instead of having to swipe yet another Gryffindor broom (none of which were in particularly good shape), it turned out that the Slytherins had been practicing on the Quidditch pitch the moment Harry passed—and, easy as you please, Harry had stolen Draco Malfoy's Nimbus.

The Nimbus was more than adequate to carry two people, which was the main reason they had needed a new broom. As previously discovered, the Cleansweep did not allow for more than one grown adult to ride it safely.

"Professor Snape and I will go first," Hermione repeated one last time, just to make sure she had it straight. "To the Astronomy tower and then down to the Room of Requirement—"

"Leave the broom on the tower—"

"Yes, Harry. Then I drop him off there and come straight back for you."

Both Professor Snape and Harry looked simultaneously grim. Neither were happy with this arrangement (and, to be quite honest, Hermione was not entirely thrilled about it herself). After much heated debate, they had all grudgingly come to grips with the fact that Harry and Snape simply would not be able to fit themselves beneath the invisibility cloak together. Snape was too tall, and they needed to take the Nimbus into consideration.

"Alright," Hermione said snippily, "so I'm a bit tired, not comatose. I am perfectly capable of making two trips, but we've got to leave now. Everyone stop standing around looking so bloody put-upon and let's get this done."

"Rousing anthem, as usual, Granger." Snape stepped forward with the broom. "I feel inspired."

"Do shut up," Hermione grumbled at him as he huddled close to her side, and Harry threw the cloak over both of them.

Traversing the grounds was both problematic and uncomfortable. Snape had to crouch down very low, with one arm around Hermione's shoulder while his other held the Nimbus. Hermione's job was to keep the cloak in order. She pulled it close together as best she could, her arms wrapped around Snape's middle, and though she was marginally sure that their ankles might have flashed visibly a few times or so, the grounds were dark and no one was around to see (at least, she hoped they weren't).

The night air was very quiet as she and Snape made their way up the sloping, moonlit lawn towards the castle. It was eerie. She felt as though unfriendly eyes were watching her from all sides, from every shadowed corner. Hermione could not shake the feeling that there was something familiar about this moment.

Then she realized—and was startled by her revelation. The circumstances were so different. And yet… Hermione almost smiled. The symmetry was not lost on her: Here they were, she and Snape, sneaking across the grounds of Hogwarts with the invisibility cloak, aware of possible danger but mostly intent on other things. The last time she and Snape had seen each other before his arrest was the night they had dined together in Hogsmeade. That had been their goodbye. Now, this was… well, she didn't know what, but it was some manner of hello again. And it all just seemed so fitting that they should be entering the castle together in the same manner in which they left it: Hidden and anxious.

Hidden and anxious.

Hermione cringed. That about summed it up, didn't it? After all this time, she and Snape were still there, exactly where they left off. Afraid of the world, afraid of discovery. Hidden and anxious. _This is not the way it should be_, Hermione thought to herself as she and Snape finally—at long last—reached the base of the Astronomy tower.

In total silence, Snape untangled himself from Hermione's arm, and with incremental difficulty, managed to maneuver the broom in preparation for flight. Once he had settled, Hermione mounted as well. She sat in front of him, both her legs to one side as she leaned against his body for support, clinging to him rather than the broom so that she could keep a better grip on the invisibility cloak.

Snape did not give her any warning, did not wait for her to indicate that she was ready—he simply seemed to know. With a gentle grace, so silently, and soft as a single breath of air, he pushed off from the grass and sent them soaring up into the sky.

He possessed far more skill than she had ever given him credit for, Hermione thought, even as her stomach lurched uncomfortably. It was no simple feat to handle two grown people on a small broom with such fluid motion, and with the cloak around them no less. Either he was putting in a special effort for her sake, or he was simply _that _innately talented.

_Probably both_, she thought. _The shameless bloody show-off_.

Hermione tightened her hold around Snape's middle, and her cheek pressed into his chest through the thick wool of his sweater as she hugged him close.

_My shameless bloody show-off_.

She began to wonder if the fever delirium might be creeping back…

Whatever.

She would deal with that when she dealt with it. For now, they were fast approaching the top of the tower, and Hermione braced herself for landing.

As it turned out, she needn't have braced herself at all. With the same graceful ease with which they had launched, Snape set them down on the solid stone of the tower floor. Hermione barely even felt it happen.

A minute later, they had dismounted and placed the broom in a shadowed alcove, well out of the way, though not entirely out of sight. Potentially, if someone were to intentionally start snooping around, they would probably stumble upon the broom within a minute or so—and even as unlikely as this was (at this particular time of night, the tower was off limits to students), Hermione, Snape, and Harry had all figured that should someone find the broom unattended, it would not be altogether suspicious or alarming. No doubt by now Malfoy had sent out the alert that his broom was stolen—and seeing as Malfoy was not necessarily the most popular boy in school, it would not seem entirely unfeasible that one of Hogwarts' many students might have taken said broom and hidden it up on the Astronomy tower as a practical joke.

Hermione experienced a brief moment of anxiety when she and Snape approached the tower door leading into the castle, worried that it might be locked. Even on Hogwarts grounds, they were still unable to perform magic without the Ministry knowing precisely to where Hermione had fled. Or at least, to where her wand had fled. (A wand that had been used within close proximity to Azkaban prison only minutes after one of its most wanted criminals had escaped). She and Snape would not be able to magic the door open should their way be blocked.

However, the problem did not arise. For Snape reached out, turned the handle, and, simple as that, the door swung open.

"Security tight as ever, I see," said Snape in a soft whisper.

With the cloak still shrouding them from view, they crept down the spiral stairs. Then, quietly—oh, so quietly—opened the door at the bottom of the landing and slipped into the first floor corridor, right off the main entrance hall.

Hermione felt the tension grow in her chest when they approached the vast staircase. The entire hall was empty. It could not have been later than eight-thirty, yet the castle seemed deserted.

They quickly ascended the stairs, all the while tensed and alert for signs of life, of teachers or students, or of potential traps—perhaps even Death Eaters lying in wait. This all felt so strange and forbidding.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief when, strutting down a third floor corridor, they briefly caught sight of Professor McGonagall. She was straight-backed and stern-faced as always, but she did not look as though anything were amiss. She simply looked tired.

It was then that Hermione remembered the new curfew Dumbledore had set in place a little while before her and Harry's departure. Of course there would not be students in the entry, or in the dining hall, or roaming up and down the staircases. They were locked up safely in their dorms. And the Professors, it seemed (as she gathered from her brief encounter with McGonagall), were on constant patrol.

Though probably frustrating for the rest of Hogwarts, Hermione and Snape found this curfew incredibly useful, as they were able to reach the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy on the seventh floor without a whisper of trouble.

"You know what to do," Hermione said softly, as Snape stepped out from beneath the cloak.

She had long ago explained the nuances of the Room of Requirement to Snape—and he had insisted that, as such, as the escaped convict, and the one who most needed to hide, he would be the one to ask the room for his own particular requirement.

Hermione watched Snape walk back and forth three times in front of the blank wall with his long, confident strides, the dark features of his face narrowed in concentration.

The moment the Room of Requirement's door appeared, Snape went straight for it. Hermione pulled off the cloak and followed him tentatively, thinking she might have a few minutes alone with him in this newly created room, and that perhaps Snape wanted to take advantage of this moment as well. She began to prepare in the front of her mind something to say to him. Something that might at least touch upon the stunning, overwhelming truth of affection she wished to convey to him.

But Snape turned when he stood at the threshold, blocking Hermione from entering. "I saw Peeves lurking on the fifth floor," he said. "Pomona's on fourth, and you know where Minerva is, so be sure to avoid them. Don't, for even a moment, remove that cloak again until you have reached Potter, and by all means, do be mindful of the trick staircase near the charms corridor." Then, with that, Snape turned, stepped into the Room of Requirement, and promptly shut the door behind him.

Hermione stood there and gaped for a minute as, in the blink of an instant, the door disappeared once more.

_Well_, she thought abruptly, feeling stung. _Alright then. Continue on, shall I?_

So she continued on.

The advantages of Dumbledore's new curfew continued to reap fortunate results, as, entirely without incident, Hermione crept back down all the many staircases and winding passages in record time. Then she climbed up, up, up again to the very top of the Astronomy tower. She retrieved the broom from where she and Snape had left it, wrapped the cloak tight around herself, mounted, and then took to the sky.

_Bastard_, Hermione fumed to herself as she watched the moonlit lawns of Hogwarts pass rapidly beneath her. _The ungrateful prat_.

She thought she had long grown accustomed to Snape's seesaw manners of cold stoicism one moment, and brief, seemingly genuine, unpredictable flashes of affection the next. But, after all this—after all they had been through—was it too much to hope that he might have changed? Even the tiniest bit? Was it too much to bloody ask for that the man show _some_ consistency in his manner towards her, particularly when she had risked so much to save him and be with him? Barely even a day had passed since that moment in the forest, when he had gone out of his way to express himself, open himself up to her, and broken a whole new barrier in their relationship by doing so—and _here he bloody was again!_ Pulling the exact same, ignorant, _infantile _crap. Brushing her off, pushing her on, shuttering himself in.

Hermione continued to fume the entire way back to the Whomping Willow. Why did nothing ever go as she expected? Why was it, no matter how desperately hard she tried and fought, how much she gave for others, she always ended up with a swift kick in the mouth?

Hermione had never been one to feel a strong sense of entitlement, or to demand rewards for her triumphs and good doings. But she felt cheated this time. She felt slighted and cheated and angry and still quite feverish to top it all off.

She spoke with as few syllables as possible to Harry when she finally reached him. (She appeared before him, he asked how it went, she said, "Fine," and that was about all). In almost complete silence, Hermione and Harry followed the same path Hermione and Snape had just traversed—across the grounds on foot, then up to the tower top by broom, and then down the winding stairs to the first floor entrance hall. They made it all the way back to the blank space of wall outside the Room of Requirement, and that was where they parted ways.

Hermione was to enter the room and hide along with Snape, while Harry went to find Dumbledore, and McGonagall, and to silently attempt to assemble the Order. First, however, Harry decided he was going to try to sneak into Gryffindor Tower and find Ron.

Harry and Ron had been fighting so fiercely during the weeks leading up to Harry and Hermione's escape, that Harry had promptly left Ron out of the proceedings. Hermione knew that part of this was due perhaps to the fact that it was easier to negotiate these sort of complex plans with two people rather than three. But a lot of it was due to Ron and Harry's bickering—and some ultimate argument that Hermione had not been present for, which resulted in an explosive fracture in the two boys' friendship.

Now, however, Harry had had a long month to cool off, and to remember deep down how important of a person Ron was, and always had been, to him. Harry decided that it was time to put pettiness aside and to re-cement their friendship, mend their broken ties, and to once more bring Ron back into the fold. The most important key to this, Harry figured (and quite rightly, Hermione thought) was to go to Ron before anyone else—before even Dumbledore—and to catch him up on everything that had happened, so that he could join their united front when they went before the Order to reveal Snape's escape and the pivotal information he had acquired.

Harry waited only long enough for Hermione to stride back and forth three times in front of the portrait. Once the magic door dutifully appeared, he threw the cloak over himself, gave a whispered farewell, and was then lost from view.

As Hermione paused at the threshold of the Room of Requirement, she considered the choice Harry had made in regards to his friendship with Ron. It put her in mind of human relationships, the ones closest to her own heart, and what was truly important about them. Ron would always be Ron, Harry would always be Harry, and Snape, most assuredly, would always be Snape. Snape was the man with whom she had fallen in love, so she might as well get used to precisely the man that he was, rather than hope vainly that time might change him to suit her own wants and desires.

Hermione reached out to open the door, deciding that—really—she should stop taking things so personally. Then she opened the door, stepped inside, and shut herself inside the Room of Requirement.


	31. Finally

**Chapter Thirty-One**

The room that greeted Hermione was… surprising.

Light was the first thing she noticed—or lack thereof. The room was still amply visible, but neither lamps nor candles were the prominent source of illumination. There were windows, with great pools of moonlight shining in. _Windows_ in the Room of Requirement. Hermione did not know that was possible. She figured that perhaps these windows were some manner of tricky magical illusion—much like the ceiling in the Great Hall—that simply mimicked what lay beyond the castle walls. However, trick or no, they seemed real enough to her, and she welcomed this natural beauty in place of cold stone and fire lamps.

Hermione took a brief glance around the room, managing to notice many things at once: To her right was a large sitting room, with a spacious fireplace (as yet, unlit), a cozy sofa, several bookcases stuffed to bursting with an incredible amount of books, two armchairs, and a very recognizable ottoman. This arrangement, these pieces of furniture, that fireplace… it was all blatantly reminiscent of the study in Pruitt cottage both she and Snape seemed to have found so inexplicably dear.

Next, she saw that the room extended to her left into territory with which she was thus far entirely unfamiliar.

In the left most corner sat a magnificent piano. This corner, well away from the windows, was deeply swallowed in shadow, so she could not make out more than the instrument's vague silhouette. She was certain, however, that Snape would not have "required" anything but the best. Against the wall, next to the piano, was a tall wardrobe, sleek and black. It had shining silver handles that appeared to be molded into the fashion of serpents. Finally, next to the wardrobe, and even further towards the opposite wall, was an enormous four-poster bed framed in polished mahogany. Its covers and draperies were all a dark, luxurious green, lined faintly with silver thread that shone in the moonlight.

What Hermione did not immediately notice was the location of Severus Snape.

"Um… Professor Snape?" she called hesitantly.

Directly across the room from where she stood was an area half-concealed by a very pretty, very ornate, paneled room partition. She could not make out the exact designs painted across its folded surface from this distance, though she could tell that some sort of oil lamp glowed dimly from behind it. In this same moment, she heard a faint splash of water and realized where Snape must be.

"Professor Snape?" she asked again.

"Behind the partition," came the gruff reply.

For some stupid reason, she felt her face grow warm. "Are you… er… decent?"

"Decent is perhaps a relative term. But I am clothed, Miss Granger, if that is what you are asking."

Hermione approached the opposite side of the room, her head buzzing faintly with something she could not quite pin down. It was… an awareness. Or a struggle for awareness, a very deep awareness, trying to take in everything happening around her at once. Perhaps this was what made her head so muddled—the fact that nothing was actually happening. There was the sitting room, fireplace empty; there was the piano in the corner; the dark gleaming wardrobe; the vast bed slumbering peacefully in the moonlight, and…

There he was. As Hermione crept around the side of the partition, she saw the tall lithe figure of Snape standing over a raised water basin, staring into a small gilded mirror on the wall. He was just finishing off the final touches of shaving away his beard. His pale hands moved so slowly—with an effortless grace as always, but slowly. As though he were so tired that even lifting the razor a few inches was a feat of strength almost beyond him.

Hermione simply stood there and stared quietly for half a minute as Snape completed his task. He dipped the razor in the water basin, swished it clean, set it down on a counter to his right, and then picked up a pair of silver scissors. He was apparently going to tackle his long mass of matted hair next.

Before he made a move to begin, however, he turned to Hermione and looked at her in silence, his dark eyes so lined with exhaustion, she did not know what to say in return. Hermione's gaze slipped past Snape for a moment, and saw behind him, up against the far wall (still hidden behind the partition), a clawfoot bathtub, all smooth porcelain and glowing invitingly. There was an oil lamp sitting on the washstand beside it, making everything in the surrounding area appear soft, and golden, and slightly out of focus.

Haltingly, because she was still quite lost as to what she should do next, Hermione said into the silence, "I'll, er… I'll draw you a bath, shall I? While you… finish."

She had the vague impression that Snape gave a nod, before turning back to the mirror, as she slipped past him and made for the bathtub. While she walked, she took a moment to glance more closely at the paneled room partition, and marveled at the delicacy with which it was painted. Mostly muted colors were used, but with splashes of gold here and there. The entire string of panels depicted a magnificent, sweeping landscape scenery: Mountains, and valleys, and forests, and waterfalls. She had never seen anything so beautiful. Had Snape conjured this himself? Or had the Room simply taken an extraordinary amount of initiative and provided this of its own accord?

Hermione glanced over her shoulder and saw Snape raise the scissors to his head, even his neck beginning to bend with exhaustion.

Oh, well, a mystery to be solved at another time. She would ask him about the partition later.

Now, as for drawing a bath…

The tub was free standing, without any pipes to speak of that she could tell. There was a faucet with spigots and everything, so Hermione wondered if—much like most things in this castle—the water mechanics might run more upon magic than logistical plumbing. She turned one of the handles and instantly a jet of clear, steaming hot water issued forth into the basin of the tub. She tweaked the other handle, adding in the cold in small increments until the temperature was perfect. Then she plugged the drain and let the water level begin to rise.

Hermione's eyebrows furrowed when she withdrew her hand and saw that her skin was perfectly clean. It wasn't that the dirt had simply been rinsed away, it was that her skin was flawlessly clean—as though she had taken soap and scrub brush to it and everything. Was this another enchantment?

She looked at her other hand in the lamp light, affirming that it was pretty well caked in dirt (after all their adventures through forests, and decrepit houses, and underground tunnels, she had accumulated more than a bit of grime) before dipping her fingers briefly in the water.

When she drew them out again, her skin was simply glowing with health and cleanliness, not the merest trace of dirt. She searched the water for evidence, but the water was crystal clear as well.

_Hm_, she thought. Then she smiled gratefully. _What a pleasant little spell_.

No need to bother with soaps or shampoos, or to sit there and stew in your own filth before changing out the water for a second rinse. Perfectly wonderful.

With that all settled, Hermione got to her feet (she had been kneeling beside the tub) and turned back to face her former professor.

Snape seemed to be making very slow progress. As well as making a right mess of things.

Feeling a rush of tenderness despite herself, Hermione strode forward and reached out to pluck the scissors from Snape's hands.

"Here," she said. "Let me."

"If you must," he muttered in return. Though he seemed grateful all the same.

"Wait here." Hermione popped out into the room again to hunt for a chair. She found a small stool in the corner of the sitting room by the bookcases, evidently meant for standing on to reach hard to reach shelves, and brought it back behind the partition, setting it on the wooden floorboards before the sink.

Snape sank down upon it at once, resting his long arms across his knees. Then he made what appeared to be a valiant attempt at straightening up his back.

Hermione ran her hand delicately along Snape's shoulder and pulled his hair away from his face. "How do you want it?" she asked.

"Short," he said immediately. "I like it short."

His face was so pale in the moonlight, she thought, and so thin. He had been through so much. They both had. She struggled through the silence that followed, trying to think of something to say, while she snipped away at his hair, freeing him as best she could from the evidence of his stay in Azkaban.

Snape was first to speak again.

"I… I did not intend to kill him. Not at first."

Hermione hesitated, with one hand still buried in his hair, and the other holding the scissors aloft. A second later, she resumed her task. "Of course you didn't."

"I'd like to tell you what happened. What actually happened. Before… before I must lie to the others."

"_Lie_? Whatever for?"

"Allow me to relate the full story, Miss Granger, _without_ interruptions, if you don't mind, and then I'm certain the answer to that question will become apparent on its own."

Hermione breathed deeply, feeling her irritation creep up on her again. "Alight," she said at last. "Go on, then."

"I met Travers at the Admiral Ace's Pub in London, as was requested. The idiot was late and more than a bit rattled—as you can imagine. Still blind as a bat. Though to be perfectly honest, he had never been particularly perceptive to begin with. In any case, I was able to slip Veriteserum into his drink without trouble. It took hardly a quarter of an hour before I learned everything there was to know, and trust me when I say that I needn't take you through the entire conversation, step by step, as it was monumentally tedious. I'll simply relate to you what he told me in a more organized and succinct manner."

"Much appreciated."

"Certainly. And not _too_ short, do you hear? I don't want to be bloody bald, now, do I?"

"I don't know, do you?"

"No, I don't."

"Fine then."

"I'll thank you to watch your tone, Miss Granger. There's no need to get snippy."

"Well I am the one with the scissors."

There was a split second of silence, and then Snape let out a rumbling chuckle, deep and amused. "Touché," he said lightly. "Despite it all, a perfect wit, and sharp as ever."

Hermione felt her cheeks grow warm as she smiled. Then she cleared her throat. "Anyway, I'll do proper job of it. Now, go on, please."

"The matter of it is, Travers deceived everyone. He played sick but recovered quickly while at St. Mungo's. Somehow he managed to acquire one of the night nurse's wands, and then he used the _Imperius_ curse on a whole manner of people—among them the night nurse, obviously, and his doctors, as well as his Ministry guards, so that—"

"But that's what everyone was saying _you_ had done."

"That I had—"

"That you put the _Imperius_ curse on all of Travers's guards and doctors and everyone. Even the guards said so when they were questioned!"

"Shameless, sodding, wanker of a man. And daft as a tree stump. But that was a clever thing, I suppose. He covered his tracks well."

"Bastard."

"Indeed. In any event, Travers managed to persuade one of the many guards he had befuddled into sneaking him in to see Frend. There, he tortured Frend, extracted the information, and then poisoned him, leaving behind a scene that suggested suicide. He sent me an owl requesting a private meeting—you remember the letter—and returned to his sick room where he waited for my reply. Then he altered the memories of those he had cursed and promptly escaped to meet me, as I said, at that deplorable pub in London."

"So then why did you—"

"I'm _getting_ to that, for pity's sake."

"Alright, alright."

"We discussed things, important things. Travers delivered precisely as he claimed he would, and shared the information Frend had so graciously relinquished. Of course, the Veriteserum helped that along a bit. In fact, it was due to the effects of the truth potion that he… You see, he continued to talk and… Well, the conversation strayed… into a subject that…"

Snape was struggling mightily, and it unnerved Hermione (as it always did) to see such an articulate man, ever solid and over-flowing with conviction, to stumble with his words in such a way.

"What?" she asked tentatively. "What did Travers say?"

There was another short pause, and then Snape seemed to finally break through whatever mysterious resistance had been holding him back, and blurted it all out at once. "He mentioned your potion, Hermione, said he'd found out about the potion you made in Switzerland, and the incredible thing it could do, and what Frend had witnessed, and before he could stop himself he had told me that his real motivation in meeting me was to get to you. To get to you and that potion, and to… Well, he was going to ruddy kill you, alright? I lost my temper with him. And it was about that time that he realized I had drugged him with Veriteserum…" Snape sighed. "I suppose you know the rest."

Hermione had long forgotten what she was doing with her hands. Her whole body was momentarily paralyzed, her mind numbed with shock. "You killed him."

"Yes."

"Because… he realized you'd drugged him and he was going to kill you?"

"Partly."

"Because you realized he was going to kill me."

"Yes."

Hermione took in a deep breath, and then let it out. "Oh."

"And I would kill him again," Snape said, no longer fumbling for words, his voice stern. "In a heartbeat."

"Okay…" Hermione replied. She'd finished with Snape's hair. She still didn't know what to do with her hands. "Okay…" She handed Snape the scissors, who took them hesitantly, looking confused. "I think… Alright… Alright, then… I… I — OH!" Hermione jumped and scampered hurriedly over to the bathtub, which she had just noticed was moments away from spilling over. Water splashed everywhere as, after turning off the faucet, she reached into the tub and pulled up the plug to allow some of the water to drain.

By the time she had stoppered it again, she was ready with an idea.

"Right," she said, turning back to Snape. "You go on and get in the tub, then, and I'll just pop into the sitting room for a moment while you, er, undress. Call me back in, though, because there's something… er, something I'd like to do for you."

No part of Snape seemed to move, except for his dark eyebrows, which raised extraordinarily high. "You want me…" he began slowly, "to remove my clothes, get into the water. And then… call you back?"

"Um. Yes."

Snape stood up, unfolding his long limbs from his sitting position atop the stool and then looked down at her, half-smiling in that annoying, sarcastic, superior sort of way of his. "You're not going to bathe me are you?"

Hermione stood as well and began to stamp off around to the other side of the partition. "Oh, stop that," she snapped as she passed him. "You're not _five_, give me a little credit. This is just something my mother used to do for me when I'd, you know, had a hard day." She paused at the edge of the partition. "And I'm not saying that any of those days were in any way comparable to even a fraction of what you ve been through, so I know it's only a _small_ kindness. But if anyone's had a rough time of it and is in need of, well… an act of kindness… It's… You know what, just shut up and get in the tub. You'll enjoy it."

With that, Hermione marched around the partition, into the sitting room, and out of sight.

* * *

He was enjoying it.

Hermione felt very at peace with the world, as she lifted the elegant glass pitcher she had found beside the sink and eased Snape's head back so that she could pour warm water from the pitcher and rinse the soap from his hair.

This had been Hermione's favorite thing when she was young (or, at any age, for that matter). To have her hair washed with tenderness and affection. At the moment, she sat on a stool behind the tub, with Snape in the water, amidst a froth of silver bubbles. Despite the fact that the water was charmed so as not to require soap, Hermione had wished mightily for a bit of shampoo, and turned quite suddenly to find some, sitting innocently in the corner, next to the oil lamp (where she could have sworn there had previously been nothing).

The light in the room was growing dimmer now. A cloud had passed over the moon, and the oil lamp was waning.

Hermione gently sifted her fingers through Snape's hair and massaged his scalp, watching his shoulders relax, if possible, even further. As she drew her fingernails lightly up the line of his neck, he made a deep, guttural, almost growl of pleasure in the back of his throat.

"See?" she wanted to say. "Perfectly innocent. I knew you'd like it." But she remained mute. Something about the profundity of the certain kind of silence they so often shared, made her contain her words. Because, she realized, there was no need to speak them.

That's what was so special about their particular silences.

It wasn't that they did not have anything to say, or that they were not communicating, or that they did not wish to interact. It was simply that they understood each other so well—or, at least, as well as either of them could be understood by another—that they somehow happened to know exactly what the other wanted to say. It was like she could play out the entire conversation in her head, while Snape did the same, and in the end, they both wound up in the same place and hardly needed to speak any words at all.

Hermione's hands had stopped moving.

This was not because she had stopped moving them herself, but because Snape was preventing her from continuing.

Seemingly out of nowhere, he had reached up and grabbed her wrist in a tender grip. And now… he was pulling her gently off the stool, around to the side of the tub. There, he pulled her down so that she knelt beside him, so close she could smell the soap from his skin.

Hermione looked into Snape's eyes, seeing so easily and how the clouds of weariness and troubled exhaustion seemed to have lifted. His dark hair was all plastered to his forehead, water still running trails down his cheeks, his nose, his neck and the flat of his chest. The air was so golden and perfumed; it felt like a dream.

Silently, Snape reached out and smoothed away a rampant curl from Hermione's forehead. He made as though to tuck it behind her ear… but then he slid his fingers around the nape of her neck, deep into her wild mane of hair, and with no more sound than a soft exhale of breath, drew her to him.

He kissed her tentatively at first, withdrawn and controlled. Then Hermione put her tongue in his mouth and Snape lost it, thrusting his tongue against hers in return, pulling her closer, kissing her fiercer and longer, groaning.

Water splashed as Snape moved. Hermione suddenly wanted nothing more than to be in the water with him, on top of him and subject to his whims. Before she entirely knew what she was doing, Hermione's hands were at the buttons of her jeans, pulling down the zipper. Hermione felt Snape's hands at her waist. He tugged at her belt loops and pushed up her jumper, the flat of his palms hot against her skin. Hermione held her arms up, and with one perfect movement, Snape slipped the jumper up past her waist, past her neck, off over her head, and then tossed it aside where it made a dull thump somewhere behind her.

Snape yanked again at her belt loops, his kisses so deep and desperate as he pulled her closer. Hermione moved her hips so that the jeans slid down to the floor, then she stepped out of them and kicked them away.

Hermione pulled out of the kiss, breathless, and stood there for a moment, wearing only her underclothes, and feeling… very much alive. Snape's hungry gaze raked over her, fully and unashamedly, just once. Then the corner of his mouth turned up in the merest, smallest suggestion of a smile, and that was all the invitation she needed.

With the assistance of Snape's strong arm, Hermione stepped carefully over the lip of the tub and then slipped into the water's warm embrace, letting it swallow her up. In the confined space, her legs pressed firmly into Snape's on either side. Bare legs. Hermione realized with a jolt that she was clothed and he was not, that he was naked beneath her. Then a calm settled over her as she realized that was alright with her. In fact, she very much preferred it.

Snape reached up and grabbed her by the shoulders. She thought he was going to kiss her again, but instead he gently persuaded her to turn around—move this way, move that way—until she was sitting quite demurely in front of him with her back turned. Then his hands were in her hair and she knew what he meant to do.

Hermione closed her eyes and relaxed, relaxed like she'd never relaxed in what felt like a thousand years, as Snape poured a stream of water over her head and massaged her neck with hands so nimble and firm she thought for a split second she might actually start purring with pleasure.

It would not last long, though, she knew. Her body was buzzing so sharply with desire. Her stomach hot and writhing with it. When she next opened her eyes (it could have been seconds, could have been minutes or hours, she hadn't the faintest bloody clue) the lamp had gone out, and the room sat in a soft, dim haze of moonlight.

Hermione turned in the water to face Snape's dark silhouette. He sat there, just there, waiting for her, more than ready. She leaned down. One of his hands was still closed around her neck, the other was on her upper back, just beneath her shoulder blade. He pulled her close, and then they were kissing again.

And he was such a great fucking kisser.

His mouth was hot and wet, his jaw clean-shaven beneath her fingers as she held him. Their tempo began to quicken and Snape's breath became shorter and more labored, matching her own. Hermione could feel him growing excited beneath her, hard and throbbing, and that was fine with her, _great_ with her, because she was getting excited too.

As things continued, some small part of Hermione's rational brain flashed a warning alarm, reminding her that they were really quite exposed, and that any moment they might be walked in on by very unwelcome company. In that same moment, there came a loud rattle and clank of metal, and the sound of a dead bolt being locked. Somehow Hermione knew that somewhere on the other side of the partition, the door had been barred. The Room had just secured their privacy. But Hermione's anxiety was not entirely assuaged.

Snape's hands were moving lower, and lower…

"W—will that keep them—out?" she managed to ask, her words almost unintelligible through her long, drawn out moan as Snape's hand finally slipped beneath the water and began to caress her most intimate places.

Snape was positively breathless, too busy at that point kissing her neck to attempt multi-syllabic answers. "I don't care," he said gruffly, his warm mouth now attending the skin just beneath her ear. "I don't bloody care. Just don't stop." One of his hands was at her breast, massaging her forcefully through the soaked and flimsy fabric. "Don't bloody stop. Don't leave me now."

"Alright," she whispered back. "If you're going to _beg_ for it…"

Snape pushed her back suddenly. Hermione was startled.

"Out of the water," he said quickly through clenched teeth. "Now. Out you go."

Hermione swallowed, her heart hammering in her chest. "You—you want to stop?" she said, unable to sound anything less than crestfallen.

"Stop, are you _mad_?" Snape grasped her firmly by the waist, holding her down against him in a most provocative and delicious way. The pressure had her descending nearly into delirium and she couldn't help but let out a soft moan.

"God help me, Granger, I'm merely endeavoring to vacate this infernal wash tub contraption in order to take advantage of what the room has so obligingly offered us. Perhaps it escaped your notice, but there is a _bed_ within our immediate vicinity."

"Oh… Oh, _yes_…"

_Yes, indeed_.

Hermione needed no more urging. Her every nerve still screaming with unsated lust, she moved quickly to step out first, feet slipping on the hardwood floor.

Snape stepped out right after her, long-limbed and dripping with soap and scented water.

He only managed to make it two steps before Hermione was on him again.

He caught her up in his arms, their slick bodies melding perfectly as she wrapped her legs around his waist and his arms closed around her back.

Somehow, with a dexterity Hermione found quite simply astounding, Snape unclasped her bra, helped her to slither out of it, and then—at last, for the first time, at long last—she felt his warm, callused palm enclose upon the soft, tender skin of her breast. He kneaded and massaged and rubbed circles with his thumb, grazing her nipple and making Hermione momentarily unable to remember exactly what brain function was required in order to breathe.

Hermione barely even registered that they had crossed the room. Suddenly, they were simply there. Snape threw her down upon the moonlit bed, both of them still soaking wet and uncaring that they were drenching the covers. Snape slipped his hand into the waistband of her knickers. Hermione groaned deeply, feeling him move in exactly the way she wanted, in exactly the place she wanted—only not because she wanted _more_, and she bucked against him. He stroked and caressed, and built her up until she was all but dying for release. Then he hooked a thumb around the soft cotton waistband again and began to pull down, pausing for a moment in the process, as though silently testing her—asking her if he could. Without a moment lost in thought, Hermione reached down and pulled them fully off herself, throwing them who-knew-fucking-where in the darkness of the room beyond.

Now they were both naked, both hot and writhing and wanting it. Snape's lean, warm body was on top of her. She could feel him position himself between her legs and her mind was on fire with exhilaration for the moment to come, to finally come—and then, infuriatingly, Snape paused again, his breath so labored he could barely form the words as he asked, "Are you certain?"

Hermione all but shouted back, "_Yes_, for fuck's sake _yes_!" and before the final _yes_ had even died in her mouth, he was inside of her.


	32. Firelight and Songs of Windy Cities

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

When both were spent and lay together, panting, sweaty, and awash with a deep, satisfied happiness, the clouds had passed outside, and the moonlight was once again bright and luminous.

Hermione's heart still beat heavily inside her chest, her nerves tingling faintly beneath her skin.

Snape lay somewhat beside her, mostly on top of her. She luxuriated under his pressing weight, his warmth.

"That was…" Hermione said, unable to think of quite the right word.

Snape groaned and burrowed his face in the crook of her neck, kissing her there, slow and soft.

_Exactly_, Hermione thought with a jolt of pleasure, threading her fingers into Snape's hair.

This was nice. This was new.

Hermione realized that she had never had the chance before to be in Snape's arms, to have him hold her for an extended period of time, and under such calm, perfect, circumstances. It was so very much the thing that she most desperately needed, but had never quite known that she needed, that Hermione was unable to do anything with her mind except let it sink into a hazy, peaceful doze.

The time eventually came, however, when it was apparent to both Hermione and Snape that they were still damp from the bath (in more ways than one), and that they could not very well lay there forever.

Snape rolled away slightly, freeing Hermione from his immediate embrace.

"There should be some manner of appropriate attire in that wardrobe," he said in a tone that suggested Hermione should get up and look.

"Oh yes?" she replied, lightly. "And you can't, in all your stately manner, walk over there to confirm this yourself?"

"I could, of course. But then I would be denied the pleasure of watching _you _in all your stately manner walk across the room to confirm it."

Hermione snorted and gave Snape's shoulder a playful shove. "Don't say I never did anything for you," she replied as she crawled over him—his wandering hands hindering her more than helping her in the process—to the other side of the bed and then slid deftly onto the floor. She added over her shoulder as she walked, "Though I'm not entirely sure you deserve the honor."

"A very great honor," Snape rumbled back in a very pleased, very pleasant voice.

Hermione laughed and shook her head in mild disbelief.

When she reached the wardrobe, she pulled it open and was met with a sight that exceeded even her expectations.

"Oh, how thoughtful," she breathed, as she pulled out a long cotton bathrobe, colored a deep crimson, and with a golden lion emblazoned across the back. She wrapped herself up in it, so soft, she was immediately in love.

Then she saw what must have been meant for Snape on the next hanger. She pulled it out and tossed it to him across the room. His robe was made of luxurious black silk, with a silver serpent threaded onto the left front pocket. Snape caught it deftly, and after inspecting the material thoughtfully and seeming to find it to his liking, he slipped it on.

Hermione jumped as a fire suddenly roared into life in the fireplace. A few scattered oil lamps flickered on in different places around the room. She looked at Snape and giggled at her own nervousness.

_Perfect, perfect, glorious room_, she thought.

With all the lights on, and now swathed in her cotton robe, smelling wonderfully like perfumed soap and other things… Hermione found their situation quite cozy indeed.

But it couldn't last.

Hermione's smile died as she gazed at Snape from across the room.

"Shouldn't we, um, think about unlocking the door now?" she began guiltily. "It's been sort of a while, after all, and I don't know how long Harry meant to wait before coming to get us, and the Order is supposed to be assembling, so… shouldn't we… shouldn't we think about getting on?"

The shutters had closed behind Snape's eyes, and he had become all of a sudden quite unreadable again.

"No," he said simply. "Not at the moment." Then he paused before adding, "Unless you particularly want to be getting on."

"No, no, no, _absolutely _no," Hermione was quick to reply. "I just mean… Oh, you know what I mean! What are we supposed to do about this?" She waved her arms around at their (she had to admit) rather suggestive environment. "They could be here any minute, knocking at the door even now, and what are we supposed to say when they realize we've locked them out?"

Snape stood smoothly from the bed and walked casually over to the sitting room, near the blazing fireplace. "We fell asleep," he suggested simply, "and the room locked them out. Quite unbeknownst to us, of course."

"Well…" Hermione walked over and sat on the couch facing him, drawing her legs up beside her. "I suppose that's potentially believable. But…" She glanced over her shoulder at the drenched and rumpled sheets they had just vacated. "There's only one bed. How are we supposed to explain—"

"This room has an extraordinary capacity," Snape said, a bit sharply, cutting her off. "It will change whenever we need it to change. For now, however…" He turned his gaze from the fireplace to her, and he leaned back against the mantle piece as he did so. His expression remained blank. "I would rather it stayed as it is." He paused. "Wouldn't you?"

"Yes," she said stubbornly.

Snape made no move to join her on the sofa, yet there was something about him that seemed to reach out to her. Hermione could see him, his posture, softening.

In usual Snape fashion, his tone when he spoke betrayed none of what Hermione thought she sensed. "You know me well enough, Granger," he said quietly, and with a candor she found familiar, but without the snark or bite to which she had become accustomed, "to know that I am not usually one to express myself in any open or honest capacity. However, despite my inherent nature, I dare risk such exposure in order to tell you that I am comfortable at the moment. I am as close to happy as I think my inadequate emotional system is capable of registering, and I would prefer that, for as long as we dare, we say _sod them all _to whomever might be lurking outside our door, and take advantage of the time and place we have so graciously been given. I assume you understand, but I will nonetheless reiterate, that once I inform the Order of the Dark Lord's whereabouts, perhaps even to the moment, we are off to war. You and I shall once again be separated, and the fact is, Granger, I very well may not return."

There was such a lot of information in what Snape had just said that for a moment Hermione was too overwhelmed to sort it all out in her head. Once she had managed to let a good portion of it sink in, however, one thing stood out like a blazing beacon in the front of her mind and she felt her stomach begin to twist itself into knots of fury. "Return?" she managed to grind out through clenched teeth.

"Yes."

"You mean to tell me that you imagine I will remain _behind_?"

"Certainly you will."

"I MOST CERTAINLY WILL NOT." Without even realized she'd done it, Hermione had stood from the sofa.

Snape remained where he was, very still, though no longer relaxed. His posture had become rigid again. "Yes, you most certainly will," he replied coolly. "May I remind you that I will not be alone in this decision, and as such, the most intelligent thing for you to do would be to act in accordance with what is normally a more than adequate sense of maturity, and obediently follow the order you've been given." Snape crossed his arms across his chest. "War is no place for you, Miss Granger."

"OH ISN'T IT?" she snapped back furiously. "Don't think I can handle myself, do you?"

"Under the circumstances, I doubt that the Order will need to stoop to relying upon undergraduate wizards who have barely even learned how—"

Hermione was on him in an instant, striding up with fists clenched tightly at her sides. "_Who _saved your life with ancient magic?" she snarled. "_Who_ rescued you from Frend? _Who_ broke you out of Azkaban? I did, Severus, I did, and I'm not usually one to trumpet my own horn, but getting you out of that prison was _not _easily conceived or executed, as you ruddy well know!"

"I _recognize_ the gravity of your actions," Snape said back, beginning to lose his coolness, his eyes beginning to show a flash of passion. "My respect for you and your abilities is great, and I am, despite what you may think, _enormously_ grateful for your help. But this is war, dammit, this is not something you understand, not even with all the ruddy books in the whole ruddy world, it's a danger you can't _begin _to imagine. And despite everything that's happened, despite everything you've been told, you never seem to be able to get it through that glory-be-to Gryffindor head of yours that you're still only a—" But Snape stopped suddenly, catching himself.

"A child," Hermione finished for him, shakily. "A child, am I?" She gesticulated wildly to the bed behind her. "Oh yes, of course—but only when you don't feel like screwing my brains out! Because then I'm all kinds of grown up enough for you, aren't I!"

"You know that isn't—" he sputtered, "—You know that's not what—What I—Of course I only meant that—"

Hermione let out a shriek of frustration and shoved him, hard, against the wall. Then she tried to pull away, but Snape had hold of her arms and was preventing her from going. She struggled against his grip, gritting her teeth, growling, "Let go, you bastard, _let go _I said!"

"No, I—Confound it, you foolish girl, I—" he was struggling just as mightily as she was, not only to keep her there, but to find the words he so suddenly seemed to have lost.

His fingers were digging into her upper arms and Hermione kicked him in the shins; she hit him in the chest; she struggled and struggled against his hold, all the while snarling, "Selfish bastard, horrible brute, let go of me, why did you even do it, why did you even let me, why did—"

"YOU STUPID GIRL I CAN'T LOSE YOU AGAIN," Snape thundered, giving Hermione a strong shake. She was so startled, she stopped struggling at once.

"Of course you're not a child, you know that isn't what I meant to say—and how old or young you are, or whether or not you can handle yourself against a fully armed Death Eater doesn't make the least fucking difference when I see your death _every time_ I close my eyes and even _think_ about you staring down an enemy's wand. Alright, _yes_, you saved me from Frend, _yes_ you won that battle. But do you remember that I had to watch you die before it was over? I watched you fall, I stared into your lifeless eyes, Hermione, and I wasn't able to control myself. I wasn't able to fight, and in this war, I have to fight, I _have _to fight, you understand. And I can't bloody do it, Hermione, I can't let you be there in the way of it all. Don't you understand? I couldn't bear it again."

Their arms had fallen back to their sides now, and Hermione stood there trembling. She felt her cheeks grow warm and her eyes began to sting. Then she whispered thickly, "And maybe I couldn't bear it either. Maybe I want to protect _you_ and _you _won't let me."

Snape paused. "I suppose that puts us both in a right fix, then, doesn't it?"

"I suppose it does."

Snape grunted in response and then reached up to rub his chest where she had hit him. "You know," he said, "for someone who claims such ardent affection, you do manage to strike me more often than seems entirely necessary."

Despite it all, Hermione took a breath, her mouth quirked into a small smile, and then she rolled her eyes. The tears left just as suddenly as they had come. "You were asking for it every time."

"Funny, I don't recall ever voicing such a request."

"I'm intuitive that way."

Snape ran his hand distractedly through his newly cut hair and stepped away from the wall, away from Hermione. He paced slowly around the sitting room. "The fact remains," he said after a pause, "I wish you to stay, and you wish to go, and one choice or the other is going to greatly upset at least one person in this room."

"I have the right to be there," Hermione said fiercely.

"And I do not wish to fight with—"

"You think I do?"

"No. But it seems a rather unavoidable facet of our nature."

"Unfortunately enough. We spend more time arguing than we do anything else."

"Of course, given past circumstances…" Snape continued to pace, studying the carpet with a disproportionate amount of interest. "Perhaps if future circumstances achieved some… degree of normalcy, we might… become more agreeable."

Hermione felt her heart lurch and that tenderness she had for him, always close at hand, rose once again to the surface of her emotions. He was trying, in his own stunted way, to make peace with her. He, Severus Snape, was attempting to rationalize and appease, to end their fight and give their relationship hope—at least for the moment. To take advantage.

"Perhaps," she conceded. "But this is a fight that is not going to go away. And whatever the outcome between us, I _will_ be posing my demand to the Order, and I _will _have Harry to back me up."

Snape threw up his hands and turned away, stalking off towards the piano in the corner, mumbling darkly to himself, of which Hermione could only catch a few words: "… stubborn, ruddy… sword-wielding… Gryffindor glory…" And then, "… stubborn…" again.

"Oh, yes, and isn't _that _the pot calling the kettle black," she muttered to herself in reply.

Severus was not yet ready to give up. As he sat there at the piano, its sleek surface glowing by firelight, he thought for a moment and knew that something about him was different. It had to do with whatever parts of him had come loose during his stay at Azkaban, the parts that he needed to somehow put back into place. But he did not want to put everything back in the _same _place. He did not want to be exactly the same man he had been, because that man had never before experienced the certain happiness he had felt when folded so closely around her, with her arms around him.

How little human contact he'd been given over the years, Severus thought. Throughout his life. No one had ever held him before, not in that way, not for that long.

He had been thrown a bit out of sorts by the suddenness of their argument, and the nerve of her ungratefulness, her cheeky, pigheaded abrasiveness. By all accounts he felt he had the right to lash back. He could have snipped, and berated, and grappled with her further, and felt perfectly justified in doing so, but instead, as he sat there, Severus began to play the instrument in front of him.

At first, he played something silly and simple, the easiest song he could recall: something one might say was the wizard's equivalent to "Chopsticks." This was partly, he concluded, to keep his hands busy, and partly in order to annoy Granger—who still stood where he had left her, sulking prettily by the fireplace, her hair a damp, tangled mess, her scarlet robe askew, the collar only a breath away from slipping off her shoulder. She paid none of this any mind, but Snape could do nothing but stare at her as he played and wonder which parts of her he had not yet laid his lips upon.

Granger jumped slightly in surprise when Snape struck up a tune, startled, perhaps, by the sudden noise. She did not turn immediately, and simply stood there, listening for a moment. Then, she slowly faced him and said, "A bit beneath your talent, don't you think?"

She was following his lead, he realized with relief. She was ready at last (for now, at least), to change the subject.

In response, Severus transitioned seamlessly into a different song, his eyes never once looking at the black and white keys. This song was more complex. A slow, delicate waltz of sorts.

To him, it conjured elusive thoughts of clouds and windy cities, street lamps at dusk, red wine, and dancing on rooftops.

"I wrote this song," he said eventually, "for you. It was intended to be your gift, you remember, as promised in our letters. That is, until… certain events came to pass. Pesky Death Eaters, and Ministry arrests and such."

"Pesky… yes," she replied, sounding dazed. As though only half-awake, Granger walked a few steps to the sofa and then sank down upon it, regarding him almost dreamily with her wide brown eyes over the back of the cushions.

He continued on through the melody, managing to catch himself up in it, relaxing into the music, and every so often hearing a soft response from Granger. Who could not, it seemed, successfully piece together an entire sentence: "The most beautiful… I've ever… That anyone has ever…"

When Severus had finished playing, he crossed the room. Without a word, her eyes shining, she pulled him down, and they made love again on the sofa.

Her every moan and gasp of pleasure was just as much a musical gift to him, as his notes on the piano had been to her.

He did his best to vastly minimize that list of places he'd never kissed. She didn't seem to mind helping him find them.

Then they lay there on the sofa before the fire, robes hopelessly askew, holding each other in the echo of the room they had both found so familiar and revolutionary.

The sitting room in Pruitt cottage was where they had first confronted their desires, and it seemed only fitting that this same sitting room would serve as the last place (for now, anyway) in which they consummated those desires.

The symmetry was not lost on Severus.

And he smiled slightly to think that perhaps it was not lost on Granger either.


	33. The Penultimate Moment

_**A/N: QUICK NOTE: This story started so freaking long ago, (haha stupid silly author of glacial slowness), well before even book 6 came out, and so already has a very strange hodge-podge of AU and canon elements to it. This chapter more than ever is going to be a strange melding of the two, so I beg of you to bear with me. I don't think I'm on crack. But, you know, the jury's still out. Investigations are still underway. We'll let you know when we've solved the mystery of my insanity._

_Anyway, that said, just go with it! (just let it happen! WINKY FACE) aaah, THANKS GUYS :D :D_

* * *

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

Hermione and Snape were not quick to leave their perch on the sofa (or rather, tangle of sweaty limbs and kisses upon the sofa). They remained there for a while, discussing in quiet tones the nature of things. The nature of their present and future, the nature of ancient magic and what it had done for them. And all the while, Hermione's chest swelled with the delight of lying beneath him.

Snape had propped himself halfway up on his elbow, casually reclining in a manner that Hermione quite frankly thought was beyond him, but mostly he rested on top of her, against her, his legs entwined with hers.

Conversation drifted in and out, never lasting more than a few minutes at a time.

"We can't just say _sod them all_ forever," Hermione might say.

"We can't just say _let it happen_ until doomsday," Snape might reply.

Neither of them really invested in the offensive side of the conversation; they were happy enough just to be in each other's company, and to hear each other's voices against the low hum of crackling flames.

A lit fireplace was far more of a solace than Hermione had ever thought it could be. It was safety. It was warmth. It was comfort undisturbed.

She and Snape remained in exactly this way, for as long as they dared, until it became apparent that they had been selfish enough and it was time once again to open the gate to chaos.

Despite what Snape had claimed about the room's "extraordinary capacity," after several failed attempts, they realized that this capacity did not allow for a full-scale change while the occupants were still inside.

Therefore they concluded that they must exit together, and face whatever stood waiting for them in the hallway beyond.

Hermione once again donned her worn blue jeans and jumper, putting away her scarlet robe in the wardrobe with a deep sigh.

Snape, looking very dour, dressed himself in Harry's borrowed clothes again, tossing Hermione his black silk robe for her to hang up and stow away in the wardrobe next to her own.

He looked a bit less like the tragic cast away now that his hair was properly cut and his beard had been sheared away. But the pant legs were still far too short for him, and he still seemed very much out of place and disconcerted.

They stood together in front of the door, not saying anything, both knowing precisely what the other was thinking.

"Behave yourself," was all Snape said as he reached for the door.

"Make me," Hermione snipped back as Snape turned the handle and they stepped out into the seventh floor corridor together.

Hermione had been expecting a great many people to be there, awaiting their appearance. She braced herself for a barrage of accusations and clamoring questions about where had they been all this time, and how dare they obstruct the door, and didn't they know there was a war on!

But when Hermione looked past the looming figure of Snape, she saw only one person awaiting them.

It was Professor McGonagall—or, the back of her. She had apparently been waiting there for some time, because she was deeply entrenched in an argument with the portrait of Barnubus the Barmy, a doddery old wizard attempting to teach Trolls how to dance the ballet.

Hermione only caught the tail end of McGonagall's final comment, "… really, it seems a fruitless endeavor," before McGonagall heard them emerge and she turned abruptly.

"Severus," she said breathily when she saw them, and strode forward as though (Hermione very much thought) she meant to thrown her arms around Snape . Then she seemed to think better of it and stopped just short of him. She held out her knobby hand to give him a terse handshake. "Severus," she said again, "it's good to see you. I'm glad you've—come back to us."

Snape rolled his eyes. "For pity's—"

"And Miss Granger," McGonagall interrupted, turning to Hermione. "You—you—foolhardy, resourceful girl. We owe you a great debt. Very great indeed. Though, there is no small part of me that isn't screaming its displeasure at your reckless notion that it was somehow _wise_ to run off in the middle of the night, with nothing but your wits and a broomstick to… to…" She took a deep breath and seemed to steady herself. "In any case. You're safe now. And it is to remain that way. Back you go—Turn right around and march yourself back into that room."

"But—But I—"

"She wishes to join the battle, Minerva. I advised against it, of course, but she seems rather obstinate in her deranged delusions of braver—"

"I think I can speak for myself, thank you—"

"I absolutely forbid it!" McGonagall was starting to look slightly green. "The Headmaster is certain to agree. In fact, it is on his orders that I ask you to lock yourself up in that room and _remain there safely_ while we—"

"Harry says I can come. And Ron, too. Harry wants both of us there."

"Forgive me, Miss Granger, but Mr. Potter is hardly authorized to—"

"He doesn't need to be _authorized_, I'm just saying that he—"

"Does not have the authority to _proclaim_ whether or not you are allowed to—"

"Stand by his side? So he can go out and die for you, but Heaven forbid he ask for anything in retur—"

"This is not a matter of requests and granting recompense for—"

"But it _is_ a matter of standing up for what we have already fought against for _years_ and—"

"It is a _miracle_ you are still alive and well enough to stand here before us and—"

"—DEMAND A RIGHT WE'VE ALREADY EARNED A THOUSAND TIMES OV—"

"—NOT SUFFICIENT CAUSE TO FURTHER ENDANGER—"

"—PROVED THAT WE CAN BE HELPFUL AND CAPABLE—"

"—WILL HAVE TO EXPLAIN TO YOUR MOTHER—"

"—BRING THIS UP WITH DUMBLEDORE—"

"—HER DAUGHTER'S BEEN BLASTED INTO PIECES—"

"_ENOUGH_," Snape barked sharply, and both Hermione and Professor McGonagall fell silent, their faces very red. "Miss Granger," he continued, sounding thoroughly fed up, "despite your valiant efforts, there is no use arguing a case you have clearly already lost."

"But—"

"You are not being treated like a child, you are being spoken to like an adult. Though you are part of the Order, that does not entitle you to follow whatever whim your heart desires—in fact, it further stresses the importance of _following orders_ which have been given to you by your superior members, not to mention both the Headmaster and Deputy Headmistress of this school. If it will ease your sensibilities to know it, please do consider the notion that should the Order fall—tragic though the idea undoubtedly is—there must be _someone_ to carry on, someone who knows its secrets and intentions, and believe it or not, you may very well be that person. So—"

Hermione could very nearly feel the frost that emanated from Snape's look of steeled determination.

"I should think a woman of your vast intellectual capabilities should not require a further reminder, however, just in case the order was not painfully clear the first forty-nine times it was given, you are _ordered_ to return to the Room of Requirement, lock yourself inside, and to await there quietly for further instruction."

At last, Snape's words had done what McGonagall's (and Snape's previous attempts) had not.

Perhaps something about the undisturbed privacy, and her closeness, and her… er… particular charms over the past few hours had given Hermione an advantage that she had not been entirely aware of until now. Because now, once out of her immediate proximity, no longer distracted by bare skin and roaming hands, and bolstered by the presence of another sharp-minded adult, Snape seemed once again in his element.

Hermione was forced to concede.

"Will…" Her voice cracked. She turned to McGonagall, unable to look at Snape as she asked her next question. "Will we be able to see you, to, er, to see Harry again, before… before you go?"

McGonagall paused, the anger slowly fading from her eyes (though the terseness, as ever, remained). "The Order is meeting now in Dumbledore's office. We shall assemble our strategy there, and then… Yes, Miss Granger. I do believe you will be retrieved before we depart."

Somewhat consoled by this idea, Hermione was able again to face Snape.

Never one to easily manage the concealment of her emotions, Hermione failed to keep the concern—and even, yes, affection—from her glace. Though she doubted McGonagall caught any of it, Hermione was certain that Snape did not miss a single nuance of her expression.

"Goodbye for now, then, Professor," she said.

Snape himself never once showed even a flicker of what she knew he must be feeling. His face was stoic and utterly blank as he replied, "For now."

"Goodbye, Professor McGonagall. Sorry for… Well, honestly, I can't be sorry for arguing, but I am sorry that we disagree. I've missed you, and it _is_ wonderful to see you, because you are… you've been… really, such a wonderful teacher…"

McGonagall let out a small noise of what might have been a quickly stifled sob and then yanked Hermione into a firm hug. "Clever girl," she said, a bit thickly. "You always were my favorite student, you know, and you've got a truly magnificent future before you if you can keep your head on straight, and manage… manage…" She pulled away, clearing her throat and straightening her robes.

"Manage not to get yourself blown up," Snape finished for her.

"Precisely, Severus, thank you." McGonagall gave one last sniff and then appeared to have sorted herself out. "Now, off you go, Miss Granger. Keep yourself hidden."

"Yes, Professor," she replied.

Then, with both Gryffindor and Slytherin Heads of Houses watching in a very rare state of united strength, Hermione walked back and forth three times, holding fiercely in her head the requirement she required. As the door to the Room appeared, and Hermione opened it, she heard dimly behind her Snape and McGonagall begin to walk away, already discussing in hushed tones the meeting ahead.

"How many have assembled?" she heard Snape say.

"Thirty-two at last count…" she heard McGonagall reply.

_Order members?_ Hermione thought. _So many_…

But then she heard no more, because the door had shut and she was once more locked safely inside the Room of Requirement.

* * *

The room had changed slightly in her absence. The bed was gone, and the space itself was a great deal smaller, though for the most part, it remained the same.

The windows were still there, and the wooden floorboards, and the fireplace, and the sofa, and the bookcases, and the piano, and…

But, no. The partition had disappeared.

Hermione puzzled over this for a moment. She would have appreciated a closer look at it, for she was still unable to determine whether it had been Snape's or the Room's invention.

A mystery, then. To which she would perhaps never know the answer.

After a short while of brooding moodily by the windows—the moonlight was ever so convincing—Hermione's gaze returned to the piano in the corner. She felt inexplicably drawn to sit by it. So she did. The second she sank down upon the bench, the keys began to move of their own accord, and the piano, quite on its own, began to play a mimic of the last melody it had produced: Hers. Her song. Her very own unique assortment of notes composed with whatever degree of warmth or affection Snape seemed able to produce.

She melted into it. That slow, delicate waltz… of clouds and windy cities…

Now, where had that thought come from?

"Silly," Hermione said aloud, rolling her eyes. But she smiled all the same.

With the amount dormant fury and anxieties still bottled up deep within her, rising up again every so often in spontaneous eruptions, she thought it would be impossible to wait for very long. Certainly, it would be impossible to do so without a great deal of fidgeting and frustrated sighing.

However, Hermione soon found herself comfortably settled in a plush armchair with a book grabbed at random from one of the plentiful bookshelves, and for the first time in a long time, she realized that things were out of her hands. For the first time in a long time, there was no pressing matter or action she _needed_ to take care of, and she was content to sit there in the dim light, listening to her song, reading about… What was the book she had grabbed? She flipped to the front cover:

_You and Your Cauldron: a detailed look into Advanced Potions-Making_.

Hermione sighed. She'd already read this one.

Very soon, despite her best efforts, the book fell into her lap and Hermione drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Hermione was awoken by the sound of the door creaking slowly open. The piano had stopped and all was quiet.

Her heart hammering, she cracked an eye to assess the identity of the intruder and what might be done about defending herself from them.

The door opened a little wider, and in stepped… Ron Weasley.

With a very unexpected rush of love, or of affection, or of she-didn't-even-know-what, for that familiar head of red hair and that freckled face, Hermione leapt from the chair and ran to her dear friend, throwing her arms around him. "Oh Ron," she said, "I'm so sorry we left you, I'm so sorry we fought! You're one of my very best friends, you know that, and I've _missed_ you—"

"Alright, alright," he stammered awkwardly in return. But he returned her hug with warm enthusiasm.

"Harry came to see me," he said when they had drawn back from each other. "We've talked it out, and, you know, I don't blame you of course. Obviously I'm a bit miffed at being left out of things, I was _furious_ for a while, but… I mean, to be honest, who fancies camping out in damp caves and forests for a month, breaking into Azkaban, and all just to see Snape's ugly mug at the end of it?"

Hermione laughed heartily.

"So, do you know what the plan is?" Ron pressed, obviously just as eager as she was to get a jump on this grand battle they had both so clearly been kicked out of.

"I don't," she replied moodily. "I'm supposed to _stay here_ _quietly_ and _await my instructions_."

"Yeah…" Ron began, sounding sheepish. "I was supposed to stay in Gryffindor Tower. Except… Harry said you were here and…" He shrugged.

"I'm glad."

He turned a faint pink.

"But I don't want to stay here," she added.

"Me neither. I want to fight, with Harry, like we said, you remember, back on the stairs when my dad sent that letter with Errol, after Frend died. We've got the right. And we're part of the Order, now, so we have double the reason. But I suppose… I suppose there is a sort of a point to it, keeping us away. Because if everyone gets killed then we're the only ones who—"

"Did they spoon feed that argument to you too? Piss on it."

Ron's mouth fell open slightly in shock.

Hermione continued, her momentum already beginning to build. "If the order falls, I don't want to be around to see it. If the order falls, what hope do we have, really? I mean they've got _Dumbledore_ and—and McGonagall, and Harry, and Lupin, and the professors. And I would rather spend my efforts making sure they _don't_ fall rather than save my efforts for when they do. _If_ they do. Which they won't. Because we're going to help them."

"So, we're not staying behind?

"You had better fucking believe we're not."

After a small, shocked space of time, in which Ron's eyes went very wide, he seemed to finally process what Hermione had said and beamed.

Hermione smiled back. It was good to be in company with an old comrade again.

"Now," she said, "first thing's first. I have a favor to ask you…"

* * *

Half an hour later, the door to the Room of Requirement creaked slowly open again and Ron stepped back inside.

He had clutched in his hand a small silver case that was normally meant for storing quills when they weren't in use. It was Hermione's. And it did not contain quills.

Before leaving Hogwarts with Harry on that night so many long weeks ago, Hermione had agonized over what to do with her left over Phoenix potion. The thought of leaving it behind worried her (what if she needed it?), but the thought of losing it, or being caught and having the Ministry take it away, worried her even more. So she had concealed it inside her silver quill case and tucked it away in the very bottom of her school trunk, to be retrieved at a later time.

Since she obviously could not go to Gryffindor Tower herself, this was where Ron came in. And, as it turned out, he was extraordinary useful.

Normally, boys were not allowed in the girls' dormitories, but Ron was a Prefect, and he had apparently been getting along rather well with Lavender Brown ever since Hermione's rejection of his affections.

Via Hermione's instruction, Ron had snuck back to Gryffindor Tower, somehow sent a message to Lavender up in her room, and convinced her to bring down the quill case from Hermione's trunk. After which Ron promptly brought it back to Hermione—wondering all the while what this was all about.

"What's this all about?" he asked as Hermione took the case from his hands with care.

She gently eased the case open and withdrew her vial of Phoenix potion, all golden and glowing, and humming warmly in her palm.

"Did you bring the second bottle?" she asked, ignoring his question.

Ron held out another small, empty glass vial. "Yes, but what is—"

"It's something to help Harry. And… and… er… Dumbledore."

With very great delicacy, Hermione poured half of the golden liquid from the first vial into the empty one and then sealed both of them tightly. She did indeed mean to give one to Harry. But the other… the other was not going to Dumbledore.

"What kind of potion is that? How is it supposed to help—"

Ron was interrupted by a knock at the door.

The door opened and there was Professor McGonagall, standing in the hall, beckoning them over with a wave of her hand.

Hermione glanced out the windows and saw the very first faint, suggestive glow of sunrise.

"Mr. Weasley," Professor McGonagall said as the two of them joined her in the doorway. "I thought as much."

"Sorry, Professor," he muttered.

"No matter. The two of you are needed in the Entry Hall just the same." She began to walk away en route to the staircases. Ron and Hermione scampered hurriedly to catch up.

"We are minutes from departure," McGonagall said softly. All Hermione could see was her stiff, straight back and her tightly bunned hair as they walked. McGonagall added over her shoulder, "As promised, you have the chance now to say goodbye to your friend. And… and wish him luck, as well. I should think."

When they arrived in the Entry Hall some long minutes later, there was an impressive gathering of witches and wizards, all cloaked and ready, wands drawn. Many of them Hermione recognized (Tonks, Moody, Kingsley, Arthur and Molly Weasley, most of Hogwarts' staff, and on), though there were plenty she had never met.

Everyone was sort of huddled together in small groups, talking in hushed tones. There was an air of nervousness that surrounded them. But above the nervousness, above it all, was a thick layer of anticipation, of excitement and determination. There was an electric thrill in every breath. These were very capable wizards, all of them extraordinary in their own rights, with a fire blazing in each of their hearts, and who had waited many, many years for this penultimate moment. Finally, it was Voldemort who was going to be on the defensive. It was Voldemort whose followers had been weakened, who's location had been unearthed. It was Voldemort's turn to be hunted.

Off to the side, looking very tired and disgruntled (nervous, too, though she had a knack for hiding it) was Ginny Weasley, still in her pajamas. Her eyes were puffy from sleep, and her glorious red hair was a tousled mess down her back. She had clearly been woken suddenly from a deep slumber and not given time to do anything but rush downstairs to join her family and friends here in the Entry Hall.

Hermione located Snape instantly amongst the crowd.

He was clothed again in his own slick, smartly tailored attire. Hermione had forgotten how imposing he could look when secured so tightly in head-to-toe black, elegant and lethal. He wore no cloak or billowing robes. Standing tall, bold as brass, he looked lithe and ready, poised for action—and, Hermione realized with a ridiculous, gut-wrenching pang—incredibly, gloriously sexy.

She wanted to run to him, leap into his arms, wrap her legs around his waist, and kiss him into the next century. But she couldn't, obviously. For there was McGonagall standing next to him, looking grim. And Lupin, and Hagrid, and Moody. And even Dumbledore, with whom Snape was conversing quietly.

"Where's Harry?" said Ron in Hermione's ear.

She jumped, then searched the Hall again, realizing that she didn't see Harry anywhere.

"Have you seen Harry?" Ron asked Ginny—who had apparently joined them at some point while Hermione's attention had been otherwise occupied.

"No," she whispered back, her nerves getting the better of her. She looked as though she very well might cry.

Ron's eyebrows furrowed. "Well, I'm… I'm going to go say… er… talk to… to Mum and Dad."

Hermione's heart gave another little patter of anxious despair as Ron shuffled off to Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who embraced their youngest son the moment they saw him.

Hermione thought about her own parents, safely hidden away somewhere exotic and far away. Far away from battles, and crazed Death Eaters, and Voldemort…

"Ginny," Hermione asked quietly, as a thought occurred. "What about the rest of the school? Aren't… I mean, isn't anyone going to stay behind to guard the castle? What is everyone going to do when they all get out of bed and realize the teachers have up and—"

"Not all of them," Ginny said quickly. "You just missed them, but Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick are staying behind to keep an eye on things. They left just a few minutes ago. They're going all through the castle now, putting up defenses and casting protective spells. They'll… They'll keep everyone together."

"Oh. I see."

"Hermione," Ginny said, sounding very worried, "why isn't Harry here? He hasn't shown up yet. Don't you think he—_Oh_," she breathed in relief as, just then, Harry came trotting down the stairs to meet them.

He looked very young, Hermione thought.

Of course, she knew he was nearly just as old as she was, and for as long as she could remember, she had always thought he looked, if anything, mature for his age.

But as he hopped down the last step and rushed to Ginny's side, gathering her in a hug that pushed his glasses askew, Hermione thought he looked much too young to have such a momentous, heavy burden upon his skinny shoulders.

Hermione chanced a glance over at Snape, and saw that he was watching the young couple as they hugged each other, kissed each other, in plain view of everyone, freely able to say their goodbyes without fuss or accusation.

It was stupid, wasn't it? Hermione thought. Completely ridiculous that, at a time like this, either she or Snape should _care_ what people thought, or what Dumbledore's rules had been. Sod the rules! Sod them all!

Snape's eyes shifted and they caught each other's gaze.

No, Hermione amended to herself. This was not the time or the place. As silly as it seemed, there was still a certain decorum, a certain taboo about their relationship that did not have any business revealing itself in this particular place, in front of these particular people, at this particular time. It just… wasn't right. Their feelings were for each other and each other alone. Neither of them would benefit from public scrutiny, and _no one _would benefit from going into battle with their nerves all jangled and rattled because of such a sudden, twisted surprise.

Harry and Ginny finally broke apart, though they still held each other's hands in a tight grip as they approached Hermione. Harry's expression read as surprisingly calm.

"Where were you?" Hermione asked.

"Bathroom," Harry replied, shrugging.

Hermione rather thought he was lying, but she didn't press the matter.

Dumbledore was already signaling everyone with a swift wave of his wand that it was time to depart. The huge front doors swung open and the mass of robed witches and wizards began to descend out onto the dimly lit grounds.

Snape lingered at Dumbledore's side, as the two of them stood back and watched everyone else file out.

"Here, Harry, take this," Hermione said hurriedly, pushing one of the bottles of Phoenix potion into his hands.

"What is—" he began to say.

"Dumbledore will explain, or Snape," she said quickly. "Just keep it safe and use it wisely. And—Oh, Harry, _do_ be careful!"

She gave him a fierce hug.

He broke his hold on Ginny's hand briefly to return the hug, his arms enfolding her tightly and just as fiercely. "You know me," he muttered back. "Never one for trouble."

She laughed weakly and released him. He smiled, tucking the potion away in his pocket and once again gathering Ginny to him as they walked away after the retreating huddle of Order members.

Hermione approached Snape and Dumbledore next, thinking quickly about how to handle this.

With a flash of inspiration, Hermione paused to quickly pull one of her shoelaces loose so that when she eventually reached the doorway, she was able to fake a convincing stumble, purposefully falling into Snape's side so that he was forced to catch her.

In the resulting struggle for balance, with Snape's strong-armed assistance, they were able, for one last time, to share a sweet, brief, clasp of hands.

Hermione was also, in that moment, able to slip Snape the last vial of Phoenix potion while Dumbledore was momentarily distracted, squinting after the swarm of Order members marching away in the distance.

Snape gave Hermione a furious, ferocious look, dark eyes blazing, when he felt the bottle pressed into his palm. It buzzed hotly between them. For the smallest flash of time, Hermione felt Snape's grip tighten painfully on her wrist.

She returned his look unblinkingly, with a stony determination.

Then he understood, and released her, closing his fist on the potion and slipping it discreetly into his pocket. He blinked, and looked away.

Hermione knew he understood that this had become the unspoken deal between them: He wanted her to remain behind, and since she had finally conceded to do so, it was the unspoken deal that he must take the potion from her at last. He wanted to protect her, she wanted to protect him. That was the deal.

Already, Snape and Dumbledore were walking a few paces away, resuming their quiet conversation.

"Bye, Ginny," said Harry.

"Be safe," she said back.

They shared one last hug, one last kiss, and then Ginny traded places with Ron, who had just finished saying farewell to his parents.

As Ginny fell into the arms of her mother, Harry turned to Ron and shoved something familiar and silvery into his hands.

"What's—"

"Here."

It was the invisibility cloak.

"Won't you need it?" asked Hermione.

Harry gave a sly smile. "Not with the plan we've got."

"Is it a good one, then?"

"I just wish there was a way to capture the moment Voldemort sees us. Because he's not going to know what hit him."

The utter confidence in Harry's tone and the faint, mischievous glint in his eyes, gave Hermione a level of reassurance that she had previously thought impossible.

Harry and Ron shared a manly hug, clapping each other heartily on the back.

"Bye, Mate," said Ron. "Give him what for."

"Do my best."

"See you when you get back," Hermione said.

"Or maybe before," he replied, with a suspicious wink.

Before Hermione or Ron could ask what he had possibly meant, Ginny returned, pleading silently with Harry, furiously. "_Please_, Harry, tell us where you're going." She shot a furtive glance at Dumbledore. "We won't tell, we'll be careful, but _please_, we want to come with you. Don't be a brave bloody prat. You shouldn't go alone."

Harry shrugged sadly. "I can't, Ginny, really, I swear. I don't even know where we're going. They wouldn't tell me."

"Come along, Potter," rang out Snape's sharp voice. And then, suddenly, they were gone, walking off down the road through the grounds to the front gates: Harry, Snape, Dumbledore, and the two Weasleys.

Ron followed down the steps as far as he dared, and then he stopped, waving after them, looking for all the world as though he could leap on a broomstick and chase after them, hooting his war cry and flourishing his ready wand.

Hermione stood there with Ginny in silence for a few moments.

Then Ginny spoke.

"What was that bottle you gave Professor Snape?"

Hermione started guiltily. "Oh, you saw that? It was nothing—I mean, it was the last bit of this potion I made. The same one I gave to Harry. You see, it's a very strong protection against… against dark magic."

"Why did you do it like that? Slip it to him so secretly?"

"I didn't think he would take it with everyone watching." That, at least, was true.

"I guess so," Ginny replied slowly. "But why would you want to waste it on _him_ of all people?"

Hermione sighed. "He's saved my life… Oh, who knows how many times now." She watched, beneath the rising rays of sunlight, that tall, black-clad figure striding so confidently in the distance, and it was all she could do to resist from tearing down the road after him. "And we were gone for a long time, Ginny. We spent a lot of time together. I guess we sort of… I don't know, grew accustomed to each other."

Ginny echoed Hermione's sigh, as Ron stumbled back up the steps to join them.

"Whatever you say," she said, and turned to disappear back inside the castle.

* * *

Ginny returned to Gryffindor Tower—to sulk, perhaps, or to fume, or to worry, or to rouse Neville and Luna and all the former members of the D.A. and tell them what had happened. No doubt, she was already scheming with all her might as to how they were going to storm the final battle in flames of glory and defend their loved ones to the death.

Ron decided to walk Hermione back to the Room of Requirement so that they, too, could begin plotting their own plots of infiltrating the fight.

By the time they made it to the seventh floor, Ron had already invested deeply in the idea of _somehow_ sneaking into the Ministry in the wee hours of the morning, and _somehow_ locating where the wand tracking office was, and to _somehow_ find a trace on one of the Order members' wands and therefore gain precise coordinates. And then _somehow_ get themselves there without either of them knowing how to Apparate.

Hermione thought this plan was rather beyond conceivability, but she let Ron go on a bit, glad just to have him on her side again, glad to be friends and both headed in the same direction.

As it turned out, it was a good thing that Ginny went to her dormitory, and Ron stayed with Hermione, because when they crept back inside the Room of Requirement, they realized precisely what Harry's final mysterious comment, and final mysterious wink had been all about.

He had left a note for them, right there in the middle of the floor.

_That's where he was when we couldn't find him_, Hermione realized as she and Ron picked up the note and read it together. _He snuck up here under the cloak. Without anyone knowing! Oh, Harry, you brave, devious boy._

The note was simple. It solved all their problems. And any wild, fanciful notions Ron had previously had about infiltrating the Ministry wand tracing office (as if there were such a thing) vanished in an instant.

**Mansion**, the note said in a swift, untidy scrawl, **up the road from Godric's Hollow. Used to belong to Godric Gryffindor. We attack at sunset. Don't bring Ginny. If you do, you're next after Voldemort.**

"Godric's Hollow, I know where that is," Ron said excitedly. "I've been there! I mean, we were just kids, but you know Mum and Dad, they wanted to take us to see the Potter house, I mean… wow, Harry's house, I guess. I'd forgotten we did that."

Hermione's excitement began to build again. Snape's voice came unbidden to her mind, from that day when they had first escaped the dungeons beneath the church so long ago, the day that Snape had sacrificed everything to save her: "_The Dark Lord loves the touch of irony_," he had said. Godric's home made sense in a way. Or did it? Whatever, it didn't matter, because this was it—they might actually have a shot at getting there! Being there! The end of everything…

"Great," Hermione said abruptly. "How do we get there?"

"Uh…"

This was cause for thought. Neither of them knew how to Apparate, and from Hermione's vast history of readings on all things magic, she knew that Godric's Hollow was not just a short broom ride away. Even if they took off right now and flew as fast as they could, she figured they wouldn't be there until the next morning at least.

"We need someone who can Apparate," Hermione said, thinking aloud. "Someone we trust, someone brave enough and impulsive enough and—to be quite honest—inclined to disregard the rules. Who in the _world_ could we—"

"I know exactly who."

Hermione blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of Ron's response. "Really? Who?"

Ron smiled. "My brothers. Obviously. Who better fits those specifications than Fred and George?"

Hermione gave a wild little hop of joy. "Yes! They _can_ Apparate, can't they? And they're easy to get to—well, relatively speaking. We just need a quick pinch of floo powder and we'll be banging at their door before breakfast. Only…"

"Yeah. Who's floo? None of the fireplaces in Hogwarts are connected to the network."

"Hogsmeade?" Hermione suggested. "We could sneak into somebody's house—I'm pretty familiar actually with a lot of the residents after spending a month there, spying and sneaking about. In fact, there's a house on the north side, near the woods. They've got a little doggy door and I could fit through it in my Animagus form."

"Great, this is great," Ron said, a little breathless now, his eyes alight. "This is all coming together. Quickly, let's go before everyone in the castle starts to wake up. Good thing Harry left us the cloak!"

"Yes," Hermione mused, "I do wonder, though, why he didn't think he would need it…"

"I don't know, but we'll find out soon, won't we? Come on!"

"Wait, wait, we need to think about timing. Harry says here in the note that they aren't moving in until sunset. We can't know what time that is exactly, so we'll have to leave a little cushion for error. If we misjudge it even by a little, if we show up even a few minutes too early, it'll just be the four of us, we'll have ruined everything, and they'll… they'll…"

"Snuff us out pretty quick," Ron finished for her.

"Yeah."

The enormity of what they were doing seemed to strike home in that moment.

"Are we stupid to do this?" Ron asked.

"We're not stupid," Hermione replied carefully, "no. What we're _doing_, maybe, is… insanity. But this is our fight, it _is_. And who knows You-Know-Who better than us? Besides Harry, of course. And Dumbledore. Well, and Snape, too, I guess—but you know what I'm saying."

"Look, you don't have to convince me, I've been all for it from the start. I just wanted to make sure we sort of said it out loud. You know. Acknowledge that we were being idiots."

"Consider it acknowledged."

"Great. Let's go."

They huddled together and pulled the cloak over their heads before exiting the Room. Hermione still had her wand, tucked safely in her pocket. It had been so long since she had been allowed to use it, she was anxious about her lack of practice. She began quickly running through a rolodex of spells in her head, going over and over the ones she knew she would need, all the appropriate words and movements.

They paused at the door for a moment.

Ron said, "Shouldn't… we tell the others? Isn't it sort of hypocritical of us to leave everyone else behind?"

Hermione had thought about that too. "It'll be a wrench for them when they find out, I'm sure. I know I would be furious if I were in their place. But, I'm sorry, this time I don't think they should be in danger, not if we can help it, and that's just the way it goes. The three of us—you, me and Harry, we started it, and the three of us will stand together when we end it. Besides, we're already bringing Fred and George along, and they can only Apparate two of us anyway."

"Alright then," whispered Ron, opening the door. "Just checking."

* * *

By the time Ron and Hermione made it around to the north side of Hogsmeade's residential area, the sun was already peaking up over the trees. It was still early enough, however, that the morning mist had yet to disperse and the grass was still wet with dew.

Just outside the garden gate, Hermione transformed and wriggled under the fence to the other side. Ron followed right after by climbing over the gate (she could see his footprints in the grass) and they crossed the yard to the back door.

Apparently, they were not quiet enough, because before they could reach the door, a huge, snarling dog came bounding out from around the side of the house and made a straight, howling charge for Hermione.

Hermione went rigid with terror, unable to think of anything besides what it would feel like when those razor sharp teeth sank into her neck and tore out her throat. The dog was gaining fast. What should she do? She wanted to run! She was going to die!

But Ron was there. He tackled the dog before it could reach her. If the circumstances were not so terrifying, Hermione might have found it comical to watch the dog's utter confusion at being wrestled to the ground by what looked like empty air.

"Go, Hermione," Ron ground out, yanking the dog's collar back as it focused once again on Hermione and made another lunge at her, barking loudly.

She didn't need to be told twice. She bounded the last few feet to the doggy door and then scampered through the flap into the kitchen. Once there, she paused and quirked her ears, straining for any sound of stirrings within the house. Hearing nothing, she transformed out of her Animagus form, back to her familiar self, and unlocked the door for Ron from the inside.

He came in sweaty and panting from his tussle with the dog, gasping quietly to Hermione as he pulled her under the invisibility cloak, "Tied—tied him up outside—Bloody mongrel—he's a monster of a beast, that one—I thought you said it was a _small _dog?"

"I thought it was," Hermione replied sharply. "They must have got a new one. Anyway, let's go. And… er, thanks. Thought I was done for."

"Oh, yeah, blimey, me too for a second. Er… you're welcome."

They found the fireplace quickly, and were both very thankful to see that this particular wizarding family kept a full stock of floo powder in a small jar on the mantle piece.

One at a time they sprinkled powder into the fireplace (which sprang into life the moment they did so) and zipped off to the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione went first under the invisibility cloak. If Ron was seen by anyone, he was simply a naughty student sneaking off the grounds. If Hermione was seen… well, who knew. By now, she was most likely a wanted criminal, perhaps even on par with the Azkaban convict she had apparently helped to escape.

Thankfully, no one staying at the Leaky Cauldron that morning was an early riser, so the dining-bar area was mercifully empty. Once Ron stepped out of the grate, brushing soot off his clothes, Hermione threw the cloak over him and the two of them commenced their journey to Fred and George's shop in Diagon Alley.

The streets were empty and the shops were all closed. The mist was still a thin vapor hanging dejectedly in shadowed alleys. Hermione thought it strange that she was so calm. This did not feel like she thought it would feel on this ultimate of days.

"Kind of eerie, isn't it?" said Ron.

"Yeah," Hermione replied in wholehearted agreement.

To Hermione's great astonishment, Fred and George were both up and about when they arrived at the shop. They were sitting out on the balcony of their second floor flat, having a bit of coffee and breakfast and fiddling with some new gadget they had clearly not perfected yet.

"No, no, no," Fred was saying. "It's got to be H.M.S. Pinafore, _Pinafore_, I tell you."

"Penzance, you snobby wanker, Penzance is a _much_ funnier choice."

"You wouldn't know funny if it licked your—"

"Oi!" Ron called up to them, popping his head out of the cloak and causing both Fred and George to let out yelps of alarm. "It's me and Hermione."

Hermione poked her head out too and waved timidly.

"Can we come in?"

Fred and George looked at each other. Then, in unison, they stood and leaned on folded arms on the balcony railing, giving Ron and Hermione mirrored, knowing smiles.

"Runaway wedding is it?"

"Can we officiate?"

"Promise I'll keep my hands to myself."

"I promise nothing of the sort."

"Is this a time sensitive thing?"

"Shotgun wedding, is it?"

"Is she pregnant?"

"Ronnikins, you dirty boy!"

"_You're_ the one who can't keep his hands to himsel—"

Hermione and Ron, with growing desperation, stammered their defense.

"Stop it, stop it—"

"For Heaven's sake—"

"No, no—"

"How could you possibly—"

"_Blimey_—"

"NO."

"Will you just shut up and let us in, you stupid gits!"

Fred and George laughed. George said, "Be down in a jiff," and then the two of them disappeared inside.

"Ron," Hermione said in a low voice. "Maybe try not to insult the people from whom we are trying to gain _assistance_."

"Well they _are_ stupid gits…" Ron muttered back, his cheeks flaming red.

Though they had been their cheery selves on the balcony, when Fred and George opened the door to the shop, ushering Ron and Hermione inside, they were much more somber, almost grim, their faces bearing no signs of laughter.

Before Hermione or Ron could get more than a few syllables into their explanation, George interrupted.

"Yeah," he said in a low voice, closing the door with a click. "We know. We know what's happened and why you've come, but we can't help you. They didn't tell us either."

"What?" said Ron.

Fred continued. "Mum and Dad popped in a little while ago to give us hugs and kisses and all that, drop us a line and let us know what was happening. We tried to follow, of course, but they locked the floo up behind them somehow."

"Nice farewell present, a mouthful of ash."

"Stuck standing in a fireplace like idiots."

"Thanks Mum."

Hermione paused before replying in a slow, confident voice, "What if we told you we know _exactly_ where they're going. And when. And that you've got to come with us because we need your help to get there?"

Fred and George shared one look before, at precisely the same moment, grins once again broke out on their faces.

"Brilliant!" they said. "Count us in!"

Ron and Hermione joined Fred and George for a long extended breakfast in their kitchen as they recounted what Harry had told them. After everything had been said, theorized over, and it was well established that the four of them now had an entire day to waste, Fred and George lightened the mood considerably by putting up for show their latest trinket endeavor.

"It's a shower sponge that sings opera while you scrub," said Fred, as though there had never been a more brilliant idea in the world. "Let's face it, few people who sing in the shower can actually sing. So now you'll sound like a master without even trying!"

"And I keep telling him that it's funnier if the sponge sings 'For I am a Pirate King' from Penzance, but he wants—"

"For He is an Englishman from Pinafore—because it has _class_, and my brother's an uncivilized ape who thinks—"

"Mine at least has a _nautical_ theme, which is—"

"Penzanze isn't even an opera, you flea-ridden guttersnipe, it's an _operetta_—"

"They're both operetta's you wool-brained ninny! And I haven't had fleas since December and you know it—"

"_Comedic _operettas, my dear fellow. When will you learn I'm the brains of this operation—"

"Excuse me," Hermione managed to interject, "but why don't you just use both?"

Fred and George pretended to fall all over themselves with good-natured surprise.

"Both? Why that's _brilliant_!"

"Why didn't we think of that?"

"Knew you weren't a know-it-all for nothing."

"So simple."

"So elegant."

"So quaint."

"Both!"

"We should give this girl a raise."

"But she doesn't work for us."

"Well, then, by me, I think we should hire her!" said George.

"By you, I think we should!" replied Fred.

Hermione couldn't help it. She laughed.

It was good to laugh.

* * *

The day passed quickly. Too quickly, it seemed. Because before Hermione knew it, she and Ron were arm in arm with the Weasley twins, their wands clenched in their fists, their hearts hammering in their chests, as they stood in the living room and they bid farewell to Diagon Alley with a swift turn and a sharp crack.

They Apparated in the middle of an empty road, well on the outskirts of the town. It was a small town. All quaint and scrunched together. It was exactly the sort of town that Hermione had always imagined herself living in, actually, when she was grown and had a family... But now was not the time for those sort of thoughts. Just around the bend in the road, and beyond the many rooftops, Hermione could see the suggestive hints of what might be the mansion in question. It was going to be a fair walk, and they didn't have much time. She struck out immediately—the sun was almost fully set by now, red-orange and bright but dimming quickly—and she didn't want to be late. She tried to push all the grotesque images that kept popping up in her mind to the back of her thoughts; images of Snape fighting for his life... and losing.

The wind was strong, howling even. It tugged roughly at her clothes and rippled the grassy field to her left, across the road from where Godric's Hollow began. She could smell the sharp tang of dry grass in the breeze. A breeze that was so strong, in fact, that Hermione had great difficulty keeping her hair in check. Which was why it took her a moment before she realized that she was the only one walking down the road. She was alone.

Everyone else had stopped.

Everyone else was staring.

Mouths open, eyes wide, Fred, George and Ron were all standing stock still in the middle of the dirt road, staring directly up at the sky.

Hermione could see a strange, flash-flash-flash of large shadows passing quickly by on the twilit ground beneath her feet. Then, at long last, she finally managed to pull the hair out of her eyes. She looked up… and felt her mouth fall open too.

"Whoa…" she heard Ron breathe.

In exactly the same fashion, Hermione felt every last trace of breath leave her body in one, single, stunned whisper.

"Oh, my…"

Now she knew why Harry did not need the cloak.

And he had been right.

Voldemort was not going to know what hit him.


	34. Battle

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

Severus shifted uncomfortably. The Hippogriff shifted with him. It was a very large animal, with a wingspan that was awe-inspiring and talons that were frankly terror-inspiring. The beast's eyes had a sharpness to them as well, a lethal cunning that made Severus think he had chosen wisely for a mount. This was a Hippogriff that would not go down without a fight. Severus rather thought he had found a kindred spirit in that regard.

All around him the air buzzed with tension. Hardly anyone spoke, but it was the little sounds of preparation for battle that seemed to make the most noise. Order members paced amongst the dry leaves, their cloaks rustling, as they whispered spells and self-encouragement, testing the dexterity of their wand arms with swift, practiced movements. Then there were the Hippogriffs—seven in all—which Hagrid the gamekeeper had provided in an unexpected burst of usefulness. The air was thick with the Hippogriffs' snorts, ruffling feathers and flapping wings, their disgruntled pawing at the ground, and the heavy, rhythmic clinking of their armor. Ironically, the armor was more the reason for the Hippogriffs than the Hippogriffs were for the armor. For this was no ordinary armor: Magnificent and gleaming, goblin-made chest plates and head ornaments that Dumbledore had managed to unearth from the untold mysteries of his Gringotts vault (Merlin only knew what all he had tucked away in there). The material had been specifically forged to resist dark magic with a strength and dependability that no combination of spell or wizard could hope to produce.

So it was that the Order of the Phoenix assembled their front lines with towering winged beasts, fierce-eyed, sharp-clawed, and shining in the setting sun like divine creatures of mythical lore. Seven wizards would ride them into battle with the rest following closely behind on broomsticks.

At the moment, the Order had gathered in a small pocket of wood on the far side of Godric's Hollow, a few minutes swift flight from Godric's manor itself. The reason they waited there for dusk was because they intended to descend from the west, blinding their enemies with the sun at their backs.

Severus took a breath and looked around at their small army. He lingered on those now mounted (or near to mounted) on Hippogriffs. Then he let the breath out again, very slowly.

For a long time—longer than he would care to admit—Severus had, in some small, sad, delusional part of his brain, imagined himself leading the charge into battle. Him, the shining knight, in a blaze of glorious redemption, proving once and for all his ultimate worth to the wizarding world at large.

He had never, however, with any coherent or logical bone in his body, believed that he actually would lead the charge.

And he certainly never believed that _several_ of him would.

The entire stock of polyjuice potion that Severus kept on reserve in Hogwarts castle had been depleted—just enough to transform six Order members into exact Severus copies.

Or… almost exact.

For some baffling reason, only the real Severus retained the queer stripe of snowy white hair at his temple. A mark distinguishing him from the rest, and a distinction that Severus did not altogether regret. He _wanted_ to be recognized. He _wanted_ to be there in the front of everything—him, the traitor, the double traitor, staring down Voldemort in a righteous flame of ultimate penance.

How would the Dark Lord react when he saw an army of Snapes descending upon him from the sun-blazoned sky? Voldemort's biggest mistake, his deepest betrayal—Severus—the most glaring, blinding evidence of the Dark Lord's failure to exploit Dumbledore's trust and love and powers of forgiveness.

He wouldn't know what hit him.

Severus felt the gratifying swell in his chest dim into a faint feeling of nausea in the pit of his stomach as he watched so many ridiculous people inhabiting his own body.

He frankly had to resist the rising urge to light himself on fire at the sight of Hagrid _lumbering_ around like an oaf in his image. No care for poise or awareness of limbs. Swinging his arms back and forth, grumbling and mumbling, and all the time looking utterly bewildered.

Severus was equally if not more disturbed by the unmistakable twinkle in Dumbledore-Snape's eyes, as he, of all things, _smiled_ pleasantly while talking politely with the pink-haired Nymphadora Tonks. Severus Snape did not have polite conversations. And certainly not with persons so giggly and moronic as Tonks. Yet there he was. Chatting amiably. Smiling pleasantly. Twinkling away. It was obscene.

Strangely, Minerva-Snape looked very much as Severus suspected that he normally looked—though with perhaps a bit less disgust for everything in the world. Very straight, very thin-lipped, arms crossed, narrow-eyed and aware. _Alright, Minerva_, he thought grudgingly. _You pass_.

Lupin, on the other hand, did nothing of the sort. Lupin-Snape stood casually (_casually_, for Christ's sake, hands on his hips as though reclining into gossip hour at some damnable fairy unicorn princess tea party). And yet… as Severus watched him, some small part of Severus thought that he vaguely sort of liked the aura that such a particular posture gave him. He looked relaxed, inviting, bereft of all his usual tension. He looked like any regular old, charming, middle-aged bloke. Less like a steel spring pulled tight, waiting in anxious agony for his catch to trip so that he could snap his prey into a trap of razor sharp teeth and snarly condescension.

And still yet again… as Severus took another breath and once more swept his gaze over his many and varied copies, he could not help but notice that there was something about him, his image, that was different from his usual self and yet consistent among all of his selves that he now saw. He wondered if it was simply that strange beings were in control of his physical form, but there was something else, something they all shared, that shot straight through like a thin, incandescent wire holding them all together. There was some kind of vaguely… fulfilled nature about him. Outwardly, the Severus copies still looked ravaged by Azkaban; he was thinner, and paler, and more hallowed than ever. Yet there was a happiness there in the lines of his face that had not been present before. A fulfilled happiness that bespoke of the deep satisfaction of kept promises, and of the hope of promises still to be realized. The deep satisfaction of a deeply satisfying night. Could it be… Could it really have been… After all this time, had Hermione Granger, in fact, managed to _change_ him in some small way?

Severus shook his head firmly. The Hippogriff echoed his movements and shifted impatiently again beneath him. Severus tightened his grip with his knees, the buzz of excitement and fear returning to his chest, making his heart pump strong and fast. Any moment now. The time had almost come. They were so close…

One by one, Order members concluded their preparations and mounted their respective modes of flight. Those on Hippogriffs slowly gravitated towards each other, the beasts' armor clinking and gleaming, until they formed one very straight seven-figured line. Moody and Hagrid were on the far ends, Lupin and McGonagall next to each of them, and then, in the center, was Dumbledore, flanked on the left by Potter, and on the right by Severus himself.

_Only suiting_, he thought. _Here I am. Dumbledore's right hand man._

Severus's fist clenched convulsively around his wand as the remaining forty-three Order members crowded into formation behind him. Well, he told himself it was his wand—and it technically was now—though its previous owner would perhaps not have welcomed such change in ownership. Severus was surprised that Sirius's wand felt so good in his hand; it felt obedient, charged, ready for action—as though the wand itself were seeking revenge for the death of its owner, and was more than willing to give immediate allegiance to anyone who shared that desire. Severus's own wand would have, of course, been preferable. But he had personally watched as the Ministry official snapped it clean in half right under Severus's nose. Then he'd been taken to Azkaban…

As the last wizard finally shifted into place, and the formation was completed, there came a moment of total stillness. Empty silence. Everyone drew breath at once.

Dumbledore-Snape raised his wand arm high. He made the slightest suggestion of a signal, and said simply into the silence, "Now."

As one, all of Dumbledore's Army flung themselves into the sky. The setting sun blazed at their backs as they burst through the treetops, the wind howling in their ears, their blood vibrating in their veins. They surged forward in one glorious wave, onwards over the woods, wands outstretched, onwards over Godric's Hollow, spells ready in their throats, onwards toward Godric's manor, onwards, on to battle…

And then, in no time at all, in the blink of an instant, they were there.

Severus realized dimly as they descended, that his left forearm was on fire with pain. For how long? He hadn't even noticed! It didn't matter now, there was no turning back. The alarm had clearly been raised before the Order could reach the manor, calling the Death Eaters to action, for when Dumbledore and his army crested the high hedges and swarmed over the vast, manicured lawns, a crowd of dark robed and masked figures were already awaiting them. Even more were Apparating into view as the seconds ticked by.

Severus had only a small amount of time in which to wonder if, after all this, their small army might yet be outnumbered—before a shrill, malevolent cry rose from the skeletal form of Voldemort, standing tall behind his growing sea of minions, and the battle began with a barrage of curses from below.

A green flash missed him narrowly, by a scant few inches, and Severus wheeled his Hippogriff into a spectacular barrel roll to the side. Clinging tight with his knees, he flung out his arm, sending three swift hexes, in quick succession, at the swarm of Death Eaters beneath him. Two fell. Another dodged and then tried to jinx Severus in return, but he had already blown past.

A few volleys from Voldemort's followers was all it took before the Order's tightly formed lines broke apart, brooms and Hippogriffs and falling wizards scattering in every direction.

Chaos ensued.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

"_Crucio_!"

"_Expelliarmus_!"

Severus blocked a jet of fire that came at him from his left, a wave of heat washing over him with a burst of hot embers. A jinx rebounded in another shower of sparks off the Hippogriff's armor to his right. He retaliated with an explosive curse to the ground that sent four cloaked figures flying.

"WHERE'S POTTER! WHICH ONE'S POTTER!" Voldemort's furious screams cut through the air. "FIND POTTER! FIND POTTER!"

A broom darted into his path—a flash of red hair and glasses, Arthur Weasley—and Severus had to pull up sharply, almost unseating himself. Something exploded in the air directly above him, making his Hippogriff dart downwards again. His view was soon clouded with smoke and colored ash.

"WHICH ONE'S POTTER! FIND HIM! FIND HIM!"

In the confusion, Severus realized that he had flown clear past the lawn where everyone fought. He wheeled around, wand poised again for attack. Another ball of fire roared towards him and he had just enough time to duck. Black smoke filled his mouth and lungs, leaving him coughing and teary-eyed.

It was very difficult to see through all the flashes, smoke, and dizzying swarms of wizards, below. But as Severus rubbed at his eyes and scanned the ground, he noticed two figures—Snape figures—land their Hippogriffs on the lawn, dismount, and charge into the thick of the action. They were headed straight for Voldemort—one of them crouched and trotting nervously alongside the other, who was striding with an unmistakably powerful stride, hurling Death Eaters to and fro like rag dolls. This was Dumbledore and Potter.

Severus threw his Hippogriff after them, en route to assist, dodging curses and hurling hexes all the way.

It was quickly apparent, however, that Potter was the only one who would require assistance. Even though he looked like Severus Snape, it was impossible to mistake the man now plunging through the enemy lines as anyone other than Albus Dumbledore. The man simply _crackled_ with power. Literally. All around him the air sparked and zapped with what looked like bolts of purple lightning, lethal and electric and writhing with insurmountable magic, uncontainable, unimaginable.

Voldemort recognized at once who was after him, and with a howl of rage, he charged forward to meet him.

There was a flash and a bang; suddenly, Severus found himself hurtling towards the ground. He hit the grass with a hard thud. Ears ringing, body throbbing with pain, he rolled to the side and leapt at once to his feet. His Hippogriff was several feet away already, screeching with anger, sharp talons flashing, as it detangled itself from its wings and lashed out against the Death Eaters that had blown them from the sky.

Severus turned away without pause; he no longer required the beast and had his own hide to worry about. With an expert jet of light, Severus took out a Death Eater bearing down on him from the right. Then he ran. He streaked forward, past half-destroyed fountains and hedges—past the petite Nypmhadora Tonks, who was shooting jinxes as she stood protectively over what looked like a Snape figure sprawled on the ground—and plunged himself deeper into the fray after the retreating forms of Dumbledore and Potter.

Four more downed enemies and a scorching burn across his shoulder later, Severus broke through the throng of battle to see Dumbledore-Snape and Voldemort locked in mortal combat. Their combined powers were magnificent. The very earth seemed to tremble beneath their feet. They had even created around them a perimeter of empty space that no one—Order member or Death Eater—dared to broach. Fire and lightning, and momentous explosions of raw magic clashed between them, thundering off to each side, shooting into the air above them, cratering the ground all around.

But… where was Potter?

Potter had been there at Dumbledore's side just a moment ago. Now he had disappeared.

Severus searched furiously.

No… Wait. There he was. There he…

"OH BLOODY HELL!" Barely having caught his breath, Severus immediately launched once again into a full-out sprint towards the Potter-Snape—who was just now engaging himself in one-on-one combat with none other than Bellatrix Lestrange.

Severus's lungs burned as he ran. _Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell_. He barely noticed what was going on around him. He blocked a hex. He shoved past Shacklebolt, past Molly Weasley. He blasted a Death Eater out of his way. Almost in slow motion, he saw it play out: Potter lasted only as long as it took for him to cast two spells—each of which were effortlessly killed in the air by the crazed woman, Lestrange.

She sent the boy's wand flying out of his hand with no effort at all.

Severus ran faster and faster. His legs were aching. Potter was their last chance, he had to live.

Lestrange was just bringing her wand down for the kill, cackling with glee, when Severus put on a final burst of speed and threw himself bodily into Potter, knocking him out of the way just in time.

"IDIOT BOY!" Severus snarled, leaping to his feet again, his burned shoulder screaming with pain. Then he hurled himself after Bellatrix, who, without hesitation, took up the fight with him instead, her face contorted with rage and betrayal.

"_Snape himself_!" she hissed, and sent a killing curse flying at his face, which he only just managed to dodge.

Severus had the vague impression that Potter got to his feet and scampered away after his fallen weapon—but then he was aware of nothing else. Severus was locked in a duel with Bellatrix Lestrange.

She and her wand was all he knew for a very long time.

* * *

Hermione strained to keep up with the Weasley brothers, a stitch developing in her side as they jogged down the dirt road around the perimeter of Godric's Hollow. The Order had long become indistinguishable figures in the distance—perhaps were even now engaged in war.

She tried to run faster, breathing hard. They had lost a bit of time at the start, standing there in the middle of the road in dazed, paralyzed shock, staring after the army of Snapes as they flashed by on armored Hippogriffs.

The boys had recovered a bit quicker than Hermione it seemed, because her mind was still reeling.

Wow… In all honesty… Wow.

_Severus_, she thought. _You idiot. You deranged, twisted, brilliant idiot._

And that was about all her mind could conclude. Everything else seemed lost in a gray static somewhere—out of reach and smothered by nerves and terror and anticipation for the fight ahead.

"Come on, Hermione," Ron shouted encouragingly. "Catch up!"

"Alright," she mumbled to herself, "alright, alright." She increased her pace—and she rather thought the boys decreased theirs a little—so that she was able to fall in step with them once more.

"Sorry," said George.

Fred added, "We should probably try to stay together."

Ron seemed as though he were barely able to contain himself from taking off again in a sprint. "Can't you go just a little bit faster?" he pleaded. He was anxious to get there, to fight, to help Harry.

"I'm going as fast as I can," Hermione ground back, now holding her hand to her side and pressing down hard, trying to will the stitch away.

George, in a burst of unhelpfulness, said, "Guess we're a bit more in shape."

Hermione's temper flared. "How do you figure that?" she snapped, thinking that _they_ would probably be whimpering and immovable on the ground if they had been put through the things she had endured over the past few days.

"Well, we did all play for the house team," suggested Ron.

"Oh, yeah?" Hermione panted. "Get a lot of running in Quidditch, do you?"

"I just want to get there," he whined back.

Something clicked in Hermione's head; a furious, righteous energy ignited. "Aright," she said, "you want to get there? Let's _get there_!" With that, she put her wand between her teeth, bit down hard, closed her eyes, and, with a running, flying leap, transformed seamlessly into her Animagus form in midair. She hit the ground on all fours, her wand still clutched in her teeth.

With a flurry and scamper of paws, she was yards ahead of them before the three boys could so much as blink.

"Bloody brilliant!" Fred whooped from somewhere behind her.

"You'll have to teach me that one!" crowed George.

_Come on, boys_, she thought. _Catch up._

* * *

Harry had his wand back, now, clutched so tightly in his hand that his knuckles ached. His initial flash of brazen courage and anger had diminished somewhat after being trounced so easily by Bellatrix. Instead, he heard Ginny's voice in the back of his head, over and over again: _Don't be a brave bloody prat._

Of course, at the moment, he rather needed to be bloody brave. But… prat he should certainly endeavor to avoid.

Harry ran, dodged and ducked his way through battle, following the distant evidence of Dumbledore and Voldemort's fight. He felt more aware than he ever had before of his own limitations. Seventeen years old and can't take on Voldemort's lackey for more than thirty seconds. He hadn't slept in a year it felt like, and at every turn of the head, someone else was jumping in to save his neck.

And here, he was supposed to kill Voldemort, was he?

Brave bloody prat indeed.

In actuality, he _would_ need to be a sort of prat after all, to take on Voldemort. Only a prat would be stupid enough to try.

But he wasn't alone. He had Dumbledore…

Just up ahead, Harry could finally see where the thick of bodies parted, and two great wizards held claim over a wide circle of empty space. There were clouds of some manner of substance, a raw collaboration of magic perhaps, roiling above them.

For the moment, it looked as though Dumbledore were pushing Voldemort back—farther and farther, until they were almost at the door to the mansion itself.

Voldemort was encased from head to toe in Dumbledore's purple lightning, a cocoon that pulsated violently as the dark wizard struggled to fend it off. Every so often, flashes of the lightning would explode outward, evidence that Voldemort was simultaneously trying to free himself as well as turn the lightning against its maker.

Dumbledore, with steady steps, walked ever forward, wand held high. The air around him seemed to shimmer… And upon closer inspection, Harry realized that the air shimmered from heat. Even from a distance he could see that Dumbledore-Snape was sweating profusely, his cheeks red and shining, as he battled to both keep Voldemort contained, and to dispel whatever curse was now slowly suffocating him.

Harry crouched behind a small hedge animal, waiting for the right moment to run the last dozen or so yards to Dumbledore's side. (They were almost inside the mansion, now; he _had_ to be with them before they went inside).

All around him, the battle raged on. People screaming, spells clashing and rebounding, flashing by overhead.

He thought he heard Bellatrix for a moment call out in triumph. But the call was so passing and faint, and there were so many confusing things going on at once, that Harry was sure he had imagined it.

Hardly anyone was airborne anymore. A few of Dumbledore's Army retained their high ground on broomstick—but those brave few still aloft were drawing more than their fair share of enemy fire from below, and they would soon have to land.

Either by choice or by force, the seven Hippogriffs had been more or less abandoned. Riderless, they galloped about in a righteous fury, spells bouncing harmlessly off their sides, their wings sending whirls of dust and smoke spreading in every direction. They were smart creatures, though, and they knew whose side they fought for. Several of them played defense, streaking back and forth across the lawn in a flurry of feathers and hooves to place themselves in front of Order members who were distracted or impaired, providing cover for those who were most in need. The other Hippogriffs (and Harry was proud to discover that Buckbeak was among them) were in full attack. They put their sharp talons and beaks to fierce good use.

To his right, Harry could just see the figure of Tonks fighting off three Death Eaters at once, all on her own. Someone—one of the Snapes—lay unmoving at her side. Tonks was yelling out for aid, her odds looking more and more grim by the second as her attackers moved in ever closer.

Across the lawn to his left, Harry could see that Mrs. Weasly had spotted Tonks and was doing all she could to get to her, screaming out that she was coming, trying to distract the Death Eaters with wayward spells—but she was pinned down herself. Fighting off half a dozen enemies, while back-to-back with another pair of Snapes, who were... Who were losing ground.

What could Harry do? He had to do something! But everyone was here in the first place fighting to give him the chance to kill Voldemort, to corner him with Dumbledore at his side and to finally take him down. He would be failing more than just his friends if he sacrificed himself before then.

But these were the people he was fighting to protect! He didn't want to save a world that had already lost everyone he loved.

Harry had just made up his mind to make a quick run towards Tonks, if only to distract her attackers for a minute or two, and then run back to Mrs. Weasley, when…

He saw it.

A swift flash of green light—then another flash as the curse hit—and then a Snape figure fell. The real Snape? Harry couldn't tell, he didn't know, he felt all the air leave his lungs.

Then—

"NOOOO!" A gut wrenching cry cut through the noise of battle, a deep, wounded, desperate cry like none Harry had ever heard.

There was another bright flash, and then a momentous explosion knocked Harry backwards into the hedge animal. His ears ringing and his chest aching from the force of impact, he looked up blearily to assess the resulting chaos. As the dust began to settle, Harry could see five black robed figures sprawled on their backs on the ground. The only remaining Death Eater still conscious was already scrambling to his feet in a hasty escape.

The ground had been scorched and cratered where the explosion hit—somehow in a ring formation. Miraculously, there was a space in the middle left untouched. There, Mrs. Weasley and one of the Snapes stood, shaking a bit, but apparently unharmed.

And there—Harry's chest felt tight—there was still a crumpled figure lying still at their feet.

Something caught Harry's eye. He could see someone walking towards the fallen Order member through the fog of smoke, wand arm held out. This was the wizard who had cast the spectacular spell. Only… it was a very small wizard. A small figure, a familiar silhouette. It looked like… Only it couldn't be… Hermione?

It _was_ Hermione. Pinched, white face—wide, brown eyes—her arm held out shakily before her—she walked a few more steps until it seemed she had reached a point where she could force herself no closer to the unmoving body. Frightened, perhaps, to look upon him. She dropped her wand, covering her face with her hands, and cried in great, shuddering sobs. "Not him," she moaned. She fell to her knees. "Not him…"

Harry struggled to his feet—his head still pounding, his chest still aching—and was just about to run to her, to help her, to see who had fallen—His heart twisting painfully—Who had fallen? Who was dead? Whose death would affect her so deeply?—And then, he heard a shrill scream from beyond the hedge to his right.

Tonks!

Harry whipped around, about to throw himself to her rescue—he didn't care anymore about anything but saving someone, anyone, just don't let anyone else die! Just as began to turn, he felt a great big _whoosh_ pass close by over his head.

Screeching in outrage, Buckbeak the Hippogriff swooped down upon the scene, scattering Tonks's attackers every which way, his beak flashing, his outstretched wings delivering violent, crushing blows to masked heads.

Then… That was it… Harry knew it, he could sense it… This was his moment.

Everyone was distracted, the Death Eaters were in a momentary retreat, no one would be watching, he had the cover and Dumbledore was in position, Voldemort was angry and confused, no one knew who Harry was, he just needed to move! Now! MOVE NOW!

At once, Harry bolted out into the path that had cleared before him, using Snape's long limbs to their greatest potential as he ran, and ran, keeping Dumbledore and his purple lighting in sight up ahead, sprinting faster and faster, and—

"LOOK OUT!"

Startled, Harry turned his head. Before he even had time to register what was happening, he was slammed hard to the ground by the bodies of two Death Eaters whom Buckbeak had flung unwittingly in Harry's direction.

The wind was instantly knocked out of him as a pair of feet caught him heavily in the chest, the back of his head smacked the ground, and he gasped for breath. With his peripheral vision, he could see the two Death Eaters already scrambling to their feet again, searching for their wands. But Harry could barely begin to move his arms. Did he still have his wand? Had he dropped it?

Out of nowhere, it seemed, the Death Eaters were then beset by two curses in quick succession. They managed to block the attacks, but, well aware that they were outmatched, they scattered in a hasty retreat.

The spells had come from a distant Snape figure. He yelled heartily, "COWARDS!" and charged directly towards Harry, apparently in pursuit of the runaways.

Harry, still winded, could do nothing but watch as the man took a magnificent running leap and vaulted over Harry's prostrate form. Just as he did so, the Snape thrust his wand arm high in the air, waved it over his head, shouted, " CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" in Harry's general direction, and then ran on through the smoke and was promptly lost from sight.

The moment Harry could pull in his first, full, shuddering breath, he scrambled back to his feet. He glanced around to make sure his way was clear, and then took off once more towards the retreating forms of Dumbledore and Voldemort.

They were not far off. The lightning seemed more violent than ever now, with great, big bolts of it shooting off in almost every direction. Dumbledore's steps were much slower and heavier, his face flushed almost maroon with the strain.

Harry's thoughts bounced quickly around the insides of his head as he approached the steps of the manor in a full out sprint. What could he do? He wanted to help, but what if he attacked at the wrong moment, or with the wrong spell, and he somehow helped Voldemort escape Dumbledore's trap?

Then again… what if he did not attack Voldemort _directly_?

Harry had but the merest fraction of a second to think of a spell before he was sliding to a stop at Dumbledore's shoulder and had no choice but to act.

"_Defodio!_" Harry said in a strong voice, as loud as he dared, hoping Voldemort was too distracted to hear, that the sounds of battle had overwhelmed him, hoping that the spell worked, hoping that… YES! There was a shuddering crack as the ground gave way beneath Voldemort's feet and he stumbled, arms flailing for balance.

Unblinking, Dumbledore took instant advantage of this precious moment to finally dispel the heat curse suffocating his body—but, Voldemort was quick too, and as Dumbledore's attentions were briefly focused elsewhere, even for a split second, Voldemort found his balance and threw off the cocoon of lightning with a magnificent burst of crackling, purple magic.

Not to be deterred, Dumbledore, in a graceful, almost impossible movement, passed the tip of his wand across his throat, and then whipped it above his head to produce a rocketing tower of flames in the air. Dumbledore opened his mouth and shouted, his magically enhanced voice booming over the chaos, "TO ME!" he bellowed. "TO ME!" And then he brought the tower of flames down upon Voldemort's head.

But Voldemort was ready. Before the spell could hit, he flicked his wand and turned the flames into a stream of hot steam, which he then wind-milled about and shot directly back at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore zapped the steam into long, razor sharp spears of ice, flinging them back at Voldemort in quick, staggered succession. Voldemort obliterated them one by one, showering himself and the surrounding area (he was at the foot of the stairs, now) with shattered ice. As he did so, there came three sharp _cracks_—Order members, Apparating in response to Dumbledore's call—and quite suddenly, all out of nowhere, there were five identical copies of Severus Snape advancing upon Voldemort at once.

Harry looked around, sparing a quick second to wonder why two of the Snapes were missing. Had they been held up somehow? Had they not heard? Had they missed the signal?

In almost the exact same moment, Harry remembered that at least one of them was dead.

He tried to push the thought to the back of his mind. There was no time for that. He had to focus on the task at hand.

Voldemort backed up a few steps as the circle of Snapes drew tighter. He began ascending the stairs behind him, his face drawn into a look of purest, unfiltered fury. His skin white and stretched tight across his cheekbones. This was not the cool, detached master of evil Harry had so come to know; Voldemort had lost control, the high ground, all ground, and something in his mind had come unhinged at the sight now bearing down upon him.

"TREACHERY—USELESS AGAINST ME—PITIFUL ATTEMPT—DUMBLEDORE—YOU WILL _NEVER_—" he spat, incapable of coherency, enraptured in rage. Then, quicker than a blink (Harry could hardly follow it), Voldemort aimed his wand at the Snape to Dumbledore's left, hissed "_Avada Ke—_" at the same time that five Snapes (Harry too—though mostly out of instinct, rather than calculated action) sent various curses and hexes pelting at Voldemort to intercept.

Mid-way through casting the killing curse, however, Voldemort turned an expert switch and instead _summoned_ the man he had first been attempting to murder, so that the unsuspecting Snape flew bodily into the path of his own comrades' hexes.

All of the combined spells hit Snape in the chest with a thunderous bang, crackled like a firecracker, and sent him sailing far off to the side where he crashed like a rag doll into one of the surrounding fountains.

Before Harry could even register the resulting splash, Voldemort had already turned around and fled up the grand, marble staircase, thrown open the front doors to the manor, and disappeared inside.

"_AFTER HIM, HARRY!_" Dumbledore barked, his voice still amplified, strained and exhausted, anxious, excited. He took off in a sprint after Voldemort.

Harry, without even a backward glance, launched himself behind Dumbledore, up the stairs as quick as his legs could take him, and then through the open doorway—wand raised, heart pumping—right on the heels of the two most powerful wizards in history, plunging himself after them into the deep, dark mysteries of Godric's Manor.

* * *

The sun was setting fast, already approaching the dimmer half-hour of twilight, as Hermione, Ron and the twins halted outside the high hedges.

They could hear the battle raging just on the other side, people crying out in pain or fear, taunting their attackers, all of them hurling spells so quick it was impossible to distinguish any one of them from another.

The boys panted to catch their breath, bending over and clutching their sides. Within her chest, Hermione's little rabbit heart pattered so quickly it made her feel ill.

"Alright," Fred gasped when he could draw enough breath, "what now?"

George looked as though he were about to answer—but before he could say a single word, the hedge only a few feet away was suddenly blown apart by an enormous jet of what looked like boiling black water. Thick, like tar. Perhaps it was tar. The moment it stopped flowing, a loose Hippogriff darted out, feet and talons struggling against the goopy black substance. It dragged at its side an unconscious Death Eater whose arm had been caught up in its reins.

The Hippogriff screeched its displeasure, prancing and bucking about, trying to dislodge the man. Finally, when its footing had found dry grass again, with a particularly strong twist of its powerful torso, the Hippogriff sent the Death Eater flying into a nearby bush.

Hermione's mind whirled. It was so long since she had been in battle, her nerves were overpowering, and the only thing she could think to do was to make a grab for any measure of additional force. She leapt up and down, unable to speak but thinking with all her might, _Catch him! Catch him!_

Ron pointed after the wayward beast. "Catch him!" he shouted. "Catch him!"

_Good boy, Ronald!_

Fred and George took off at once. Ron tossed the invisibility cloak in Hermione's direction and then followed after his brothers.

The Hippogriff evaded them for a minute, even rising up once as though to strike. The boys had to put their wands behind their backs, demurring to the creature, before it settled down enough to be reasoned with.

Ron, Fred and George all took their turns bowing to it. The first go around, it would only bow back to Fred. After another try, it bowed graciously to George, while Ron went three times without any luck.

"Just leave it, just forget it, Ron," George said hastily as he mounted the Hippogriff to sit behind his brother. "We'll be faster with two anyway, and you've got the cloak. So put that on, stay hidden, keep close to Hermione, help out where you can, and try not to die, eh?"

Hermione eyed nervously the thin sliver of opening she could see in the hedge. Every color of spell flashed by, illuminating the distant movement of dueling wizards. Someone yelled distantly, "_Crucio!_" and she could hear the resulting scream.

"You keep your head straight, too," Ron replied, backing up as the Hippogriff stretched out its wings, preparing to launch. Its talons were burned and blackened. It would not stay on the ground long. "And don't let mum see you!" Ron added loudly. "It'll kill her before the Death Eaters even have a chance!"

"Aye aye, Captain!" said Fred, giving a salute.

"Anchor's away!" said George, tapping the Hippogriff's sides with his heels and grabbing hold of Fred's shoulders as the Hippogriff leapt into the sky.

Fred shouted, "Be safe, you two!" as their shadow passed by overhead, and then they were beyond the hedge and out of sight.

Ron dropped to the grass at Hermione's side, panting and sweaty, picking up the invisibility cloak. "This is mad," he whispered emphatically, shaking his head. "This is bloody mad."

He looked down at Hermione. His eyes were so blue and wide with fear. His complexion pale beneath his freckles. Hermione gazed back.

This was it. No turning back now.

She nodded.

Ron jumped to his feet again and threw the cloak over himself, disappearing in a blink. "Right then," he said in a shaky voice. "Crack on, shall we?"

Hermione picked up her wand in her teeth and scampered cautiously to the newly opened gap in the hedges, careful not to tread on steaming tar. Unable to see Ron, she could still sense him very nearby—smell his anxiety, hear his footsteps and labored breathing.

Hermione stopped as the full sight of battle met her eyes.

"Blimey," Ron whispered from somewhere above her.

The sheer chaos of it was overwhelming. They didn't have a chance. They were so small, so young.

Ron was shaking with such violence, his vocal chords tight with fear, that his next words came out in barely a whisper:

"Hermione... I think we've made a mistake…"

* * *

Fred figured they were doing alright, considering. The smoke from several hedge animals and patches of lawn that had obviously been ablaze for a while, mostly obscured them from anyone on the ground.

Of course, just the same, they were more or less unable to see the majority of what was going on below.

A very tense ten minutes passed in which the twins circled and dove and tossed about, looking for someone in need of help, or for an unsuspecting enemy to assail. George kept shouting directions in his ear, which was distracting. It was difficult to steer a Hippogriff to begin with, let alone one with heavy armor and who was arguably frightened within an inch of its life.

They flew on through the dimming twilight, circling higher, and higher, until, "There! Up ahead, to the left!" George shouted, and Fred wrenched their mount's reins in the direction in which his twin pointed.

Through swirling gaps in the smoke, Fred could see an old man—an Order member whose name he did not know—swooping erratically back and forth on his broom. A green curse zoomed inches from his right elbow, making the man give a yell and dart upwards.

Fred looked down. His heart leapt into his throat. Four Death Eaters flew in a pack just beneath them—each of them on their own broom. Fred tried not to think about what had happened to the brooms' original owners.

There was a man who was still alive, who was in trouble, and who needed their help.

Fred shot a glance over his shoulder at George.

"Let's go," they said in unison—and then, they were off.

Down, down, they went, the wind rushing in their ears. Fred prepared as many spells in the back of his mind as he could, preparing himself for any situation, any attack, any counterattack.

They lost sight of their target as they entered a particularly thick column of black smoke, but still they flew own.

A few seconds later, when they emerged once more into clear sky, the man was no longer there.

Fred reined in the Hippogriff so that with steady wing beats, they could pause in midair.

A minute passed with nothing but the distant echoes of battle. Somewhere far away, Fred was almost sure he heard the wild cackle of that dark haired woman he'd seen so often at Voldemort's side. Her voice always gave him the shakes. She had sounded... victorious. Bellatrix Lestrange… He only hoped they did not run into her.

Suddenly, George's arms tightened. "In the tree," he whispered into Fred's ear.

Fred cast his gaze around and saw the old man's robes tangled up in the branches of a large tree just a few dozen yards below.

His broom was nowhere to be seen. Had he fallen? Had he jumped? And where were all the—

"DUCK!" George yelled, pushing Fred's head down so that he slumped against the Hippogriff's neck and choked on a subsequent mouthful of feathers.

The four Death Eaters they were previously following had somehow looped around and spotted them, fanning out in a circle formation high above. One of their number had shot a jinx that, thankfully, George saw in time, so it only _whooshed_ harmlessly over their backs.

The Hippogriff was not so lucky.

A second Death Eater yelled, "_Incendio!_" and the yellow-orange burst of spelled light caught their Hippogriff right between the eyes. It wore a plate of armor across its forehead, but the spell burst into white-hot sparks that startled him, partially blinding him, setting the animal off so that it screeched with pain and fright.

Fred lost what little control he had as the animal flailed about in a tantrum. It bucked and rolled in the air, careening off in Fred had no earthly idea which direction. It was all he could do just to keep from flying off into empty space.

With a particularly violent roll, Fred felt George's hold break on his waist, and Fred wrenched his arm around, catching his brother by the ankle of his jeans. "HOLD ON!" he yelled, his shoulder bursting into shooting waves of pain that traveled all over what felt like every muscle of his back.

"Don't let go don't let go don't let go—" George chanted back deliriously, flinging out his hands as though to break his fall.

Fred's fingers were rivulets of pain as he tightened his grasp so hard he was sure his bones might break. "DOWN! DOWN!" Fred screamed at the Hippogriff, pushing at it with his knees as best he could. "DOWN!"

Thankfully, they were not far off the ground by that time, and when the muscles in Fred's arm could no longer obey him, he let his knees go and slid off the animal's back, falling behind his brother. He managed to hurl a cushioning charm at the ground, just in time, and the two of them flopped into it, bouncing once, then rolled onto solid earth, unharmed.

They lay there for a second, gasping and shaking.

"Bit of a skittish ride, that one," Fred panted, chuckling.

George laughed in return, overwhelmed with nervous relief.

But they both stopped as soon as they heard someone scream—a wailing scream in the guttural, painful, unrelenting way that can only be brought about by the likes of the Cruciatus curse.

As one, the twins leapt to their feet again.

Fred's muscles ached, but he ignored the pain. "Still got your wand?" he asked.

George held it up in a shaky hand. "Yup."

"Alright, then."

Together, they struck off in the direction of the screams.

On their way, they were forced to clamber down into an enormous pit that had been gouged out of the lawn by some horrible curse. As they ascended the opposite side, they heard more wizards—Order members—rushing to the screaming victim's aid.

Emboldened by the idea of reinforcements, they scrambled over the side of the pit, more ready than ever to leap into the fray.

"_Reducto!"_

"_Expeliarm—_"

"_Sectum_—"

"_INCARCEROUS!_"

Just as Fred and George dashed the final distance, and saw a black-cloaked figure fall to the ground, ensnared by a net of ropes, they heard a familiar voice:

"Well done, Kingsley!"

They both skidded to a halt in alarm. Fred's breath caught, his legs tightened to flee—but it was too late.

Kingsley Shacklebolt moved to the left to begin dueling another attacker, and there behind him, stood their mother.

She saw them.

Her eyes went wide, the color drained from her face, and her wand arm paused mid swish. But all of that was only for a fraction of a second. Because then she was suddenly screaming abuse at them at the top of her lungs—"IDIOT BOYS! I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU COULDN'T BE TRUSTED TO DO WHAT YOU WERE TOLD YOU BLITHERING FOOLHARDY—" She berating them while simultaneously flinging hexes at the surrounding Death Eaters with such venom and force that many of them quickly ran from her in fear.

Fred and George began to back up with quick, nervous steps. "Good one, Mum!" Fred said as she caught a Death Eater full in the face with a fainting spell.

"Smashing job!" followed George.

The Death Eaters were giving her a wide berth now. Behind her, Shacklebolt and one of the Snapes had all but stopped to watch, as their opponents grew silent with fright. One of the Snapes was on the ground (Fred realized belatedly that he must have been the one put under the Cruciatus), but the stricken man was already struggling back to his knees.

"Ripping good dueling, there, Mum—"

"See you've got everything under control here—"

"OH NO YOU DON'T YOU—"

"We'll catch up with you in a few—"

"COME BACK HERE THIS INSTANT AND APPARATE STRAIGHT HOME THE PAIR OF YOU OR I'LL DRAG YOU THERE MYSELF YOU—"

"Bye, Mum!"

"Love you!"

Fred and George turned at once and beat a hasty retreat as they saw their mother raise her wand as though to bring them to her by force.

But the giant chasm created an obstacle at their backs, and their path was blocked on one side by an enormous dragon statue. All they could do was to seek the help, once again, of their fluttering, shaking, terrified Hippogriff friend, who stood nearby, ruffling its feathers and shifting in nervous alarm.

George was quicker than Fred and he leapt up on the animal's back first. Fred grabbed his brother's outstretched arm and swung up behind him. Before their mother could catch them and send them forcibly home, George flicked the reins and their Hippogriff took off in a full-out gallop.

"IDIOT BOYS!" Fred heard his mother shout at their backs. And then they were yards away, sweeping upwards into the air, once more, up into the darkening sky.

"Where are we going?" Fred shouted over the wind. It was very hard to see specific shapes any more. The sun was, at best, less than fifteen minutes away from disappearing altogether.

George seemed to know, though. Which gave Fred comfort. George always seemed to know.

"That bloke in the tree," George shouted back. "I think he was still alive."

"How are we going to find him?"

"He can't be far off."

"No, you're right—look!"

Fred indicated a looming shadow off to their right. A tall tree—he was sure it was the right one.

It was.

"Good eye!" George exclaimed, and with a gentle ease that Fred was both surprised by and sorely envied, George guided the Hippogriff into a smooth glide down to meet the treetops. The old man still lay tangled up in branches, his robes twisted hopelessly about.

"Oi!" George called. "Need a hand?"

As they approached, the old man managed to lift his head and see them. There was something off about him, though, thought Fred—difficult to see through the growing darkness—it looked as though the man's arms were free, but he wasn't struggling. And the closer they got, Fred could see that the man gazed at them not with thanks, but with a disquieting, blank, dead sort of look in his eyes.

They were nearly upon their target.

George let go of the reins with one hand to reach out towards the man.

What was the man doing? He was raising his arm to grasp George's… except… wait, no, that was his wand arm… and he had his wand still… he was raising his wand to…

"GEORGE, NO!"

Just as Fred realized that the man was under the Imperius curse, the old man snarled some dark, horrible spell—a blue light flashed from his wand—and George cried out.

There was a great splatter of blood.

George's body went limp.

The Hippogriff took off again in terrified alarm. But this time, it went up, up, up, shrieking and squawking, and beating its wings as fast as it could, rocketing into the clouds.

Fred struggled to keep hold of his brother's body as the wind roared in his ears. His body was so heavy, and there was blood everywhere, making his skin warm and slick.

"GEORGE! Fred screamed into the wind. His wand was lost—he'd dropped it—his mind was lost—his every thought and ounce of will bent upon keeping the two of them from sliding off the back of the Hippogriff and falling so much farther than any cushioning charm would allow them to survive. He didn't know what to do. George's arms were slipping, his dead weight leaning against Fred as the Hippogriff soared higher and higher, pushing him ever backwards. The light was too dim to see the extent of what had happened. "GEORGE!" Fred screamed again, shaking him, tears stinging his eyes. His feet were slipping. George's head flopped back onto Fred's shoulder. He could feel a warm wetness creeping down his chest. In a last ditch effort, Fred made a wild, desperate grab for the reins around the bulk of his twin's chest.

For a moment, Fred felt his fingers closed over the thin strip of leather. Then the Hippogriff's wings gave another powerful beat, they were jolted upwards, the reins slipped from his grasp, George's body fell backwards with another heavy push, and the weight became too much.

His knees gave out.

His legs seized up.

The air grew silent.

Fred closed his eyes.

Then, they were falling.


	35. Endings

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

Hermione scampered along the perimeter of the lawn, inches away from chaos. Her jaw ached from clenching her wand between her teeth, and her mind kept shrinking away into a haze of primal fears and senses. Ron had the cloak tight around himself, so she could not see if he was following, but occasionally she could hear the thud of his footsteps or a whisper of feverish muttering behind her.

It was astounding she even heard him at all, the noise of battle was overwhelming: explosions and screams, the crackle of flames, pleas for help, cries of malice and fury. It was madness. Where was she supposed to begin?

_Trap them, trap them, beat them down_, Hermione repeated to herself.

She couldn't kill them, she didn't know how.

_Trap them, delay them, beat them down_.

Sooner or later, she would need to pick her moment and transform. As a rabbit without magic she could do very little to attack or defend. The most she had done so far was to get under the feet of a passing Death Eater and send him for a tumble.

"Not so fast, Hermione," Ron panted behind her, as she darted and weaved amongst strewn rubble and smoke, beneath the flashes of flying hexes. "Not so—"

Hermione had only a split second of warning. She felt the rumble of a very large object pounding towards them, then the whistle of something slicing through the air. She heard Ron grunt with pain. She turned and saw the towering form of an enormous hedge animal – what might have once been a bear – bewitched into full, animated fury. Vines were everywhere, sprouting out of its back and the ends of its massive paws. One of the animal's paws must have caught Ron unawares and sent him flying, because she couldn't see him or pick up a scent of him anywhere. Though, she was hardly given time to look. The bear was in a rampage, flailing wildly about, and it was all Hermione could do not to get snagged up or trampled, as she scampered around underfoot.

In fact, Hermione was so distracted, that it took her a few minutes before she discovered that there was a wizard caught in the vast netting of foliage the animal dragged behind it. The man was struggling wildly, trying to scream, but unable to do so as he slowly choked in the hedge beast's grip. With his one free hand, he pulled desperately at the vines encasing his head, which had so thoroughly enveloped him, all that could be seen were small patches of his flaming red… hair…

Just as Hermione realized that Mr. Weasley must be the man trapped, a spell from nowhere hit the hedge animal and the entire creature burst into flames. It stumbled a few steps, then seemed to curl in on itself with a silent scream. There was a faint whooshing sound as a second spell cut through the vines trapping Mr. Weasley, and the moment his wand arm was free, Mr. Weasley rolled onto his back and sent a jet of light at the creature that blasted it clear across the lawn and out of sight.

Hermione stood stock still, her heart hammering as Mr. Weasley ripped away the last of the vines, looking around as he did so for the identity of the wizard who had saved him.

Ron, somewhere nearby, appeared to have decided to remain hidden beneath the cloak.

There were footsteps and then a wheezing Kingsley Shacklebolt appeared. "Arthur," he panted. Hermione could see a big tear in his robes just above the knee where some horrible spell had caused the skin beneath to boil and swell.

"Sarofim's in trouble," Kingsley said hurriedly as he reached down to help Mr. Weasley to his feet.

Mr. Weasley hardly heard him as he took a deep breath and adjusted the mangled glasses on his face. "Was… was that you, Kingsley?"

"Was what me?"

"There was this, this beast, and damned if I didn't think it had me, but someone—"

"It doesn't matter," Kingsley interrupted, grimacing as he put weight on his damaged leg, motioning for Mr. Weasley to follow him. "Come with me – _Now_, Arthur!"

Mr. Weasley nodded, rolled back the sleeves of his robes, and then the two men were off at once, running side by side with their wands outstretched before them.

A moment later, Hermione jumped as she heard Ron sprint up beside her.

"I'm going with them," he panted quickly, and then, without another word, the sound of his footsteps pounded away after the retreating form of his father.

Unsure of what else to do, Hermione was about to follow. She shifted her wand around in her mouth and had taken no more than two or three leaps forward before there, right there, only a few yards away, she saw a familiar figure rush by.

Her heart jumped. Her chest sparked with a violent, electric pulse.

Snape.

And he was not alone. Hermione saw a swish of black robes, a stream of dark hair and then she heard the echo of a familiar laugh. The woman was dueling with Snape, chasing him through the battlefield, her every mannerism deranged and powerful – Bellatrix Lestrange.

Like a shot, Hermione was off. After them, after Snape, not certain what she could do, but determined to do it quickly and to the best of her ability. She ran through a sea of running feet, and the hems of wizard robes, multi-colored ash raining down from above as fireballs roared in the sky overhead.

With each blink of her eyes, with each twitch of movement to dodge or duck, she grew less and less sure that she was headed in the right direction. She had lost Snape and Bellatrix in the smoke, but surely they couldn't be far. Surely not. Only a few more yards, if she just ran a little faster, she would catch them. Over there! Was that him? It looked—

Hermione squealed with pain as someone's foot caught her in the ribs and knocked her down. She gasped for breath as she saw a woman — was that Mrs. Weasley? — stumble to her knees and then leap back up again and take off in a full sprint.

_Ouch_.

Hermione needed a minute to catch her breath. Her chest ached horribly. Where was her wand? It had flown from her mouth — but not far. She could see it poking out from beneath the grass a little ways away.

Laboriously, Hermione struggled to her feet — paws, rather — and dove after her fallen weapon. Just as she recaptured the handle between her teeth, she heard a familiar crackle to her right. Flames roaring to life. She turned to see a ring of blue fire, ominous and hot, put to light by a pair of Death Eaters who had captured one of the armored Hippogriffs in the center. The Hippogriff bucked and wheeled around in fright, the flames too close to allow for flight. If it stretched out its wings even the slightest, the feathers would burn and the creature would be stranded to its death.

Hermione knew this was the moment. She needed to transform.

That was no ordinary Hippogriff, it was Buckbeak! And he was in danger. Any amount of armor, no matter how powerful, would be of no help if Buckbeak himself were burning beneath.

Practice in the face of peril had done a trick on Hermione's brain during her adventures of the past few days. She found it surprisingly simple now to quiet what needed quieting in her mind, and to locate the full human within herself.

A moment later, she was Hermione again, standing strong, griping her cherrywood wand in a white-knuckle grip.

_ZAP – CRACK – _with two quick hexes, the dark robed figures were on the ground and Hermione rushed forward to dispel the blue fire.

Buckbeak leapt aside in anxious excitement the moment he was free. His armor looked a little blackened, and his chest feathers seemed a bit scarce, but he was otherwise unharmed. The Hippogriff paused for a moment and caught Hermione's gaze with his fierce, golden eyes. He nodded once, very distinctly, slowly, and with much grace, as though to say a heartfelt thank you — before he leapt upwards, and with a gigantic sweep of wings, took off into the sky.

Then Hermione was alone again.

She felt the full effect of her vulnerability for the first time, standing there as she did, without disguise or immediate action. The wind felt so strong — almost dangerous — as though it accentuated all the parts of her body that were not covered. The flutter of her clothes against her skin made her all too aware that, unlike Buckbeak, she had no armor to speak of. It was then she began to honestly consider how deranged and perhaps futile this plan was. Could they really have been so stupid to do this… Right here in the middle of all things… Any moment now could be hear last, and no one would know… They were only kids after all…

Then she remembered: she had to find Snape. That thought consumed her at once, and nothing else found room to enter her mind.

She took off at a jog, wiping sweat from her eyes and pulling hair out of her face.

Nearby — so near that it made her heart leap in her throat — she heard Bellatrix cry out in triumph.

_NO!_

Hermione broke into a run in what she thought was the direction of Bellatrix's call. _No, no, no, please no, please no_…

There, through a parting in the black smoke and swirl of wizard robes, she saw him. The tall, lithe figure of Severus Snape, side along Mrs. Weasley and another Order member she could not see, throwing hexes and counter curses in a blur of growing desperation.

They were surrounded, a pack of Death Eaters closing in tight. Bellatrix must be hidden somewhere among them, Hermione could not see her. But the Death Eaters were winning their fight. Snape was forced to step back — and step back again — sweat pouring down his face, his movements growing weaker by the second. Hermione had seen this before, but it was different this time. He looked even more tired than he had when cornered in Pruitt cottage — less sure of himself, less sharp, more vulnerable, barely hanging on. Hermione quickened her pace, knowing she had to get there before the rest of his strength was gone.

From a distance, she watched Snape block a spectacular jinx in a shower of gold sparks. He gave a clipped yell of victory, then hurled a spell back at his attackers that encased two of them in a block of ice.

Hermione's breath came short and sharp in her chest. She was getting closer — she was almost there.

Then the wind changed, and the smoke cleared. Snape's gaze was distracted for half a second. His dark eyes flickered up to meet Hermione's as he caught sight of her through a gap in the fighting. Then—

_No_…

A blinding flash of green light.

It hit Snape full in the chest, and in the space of a heartbeat, he had fallen backwards. He was so utterly still. The very air around him seemed to have died as he did.

In that instant, Hermione had no idea what happened. Her mind somehow took leave of her body and the magic roared out of her like some mighty force of righteous fury. Two spells erupted from her wand in almost instant succession, both of them so immense and so powerful she could feel the vibrations in the very marrow of her bones.

The first spell covered Snape and his comrades in a white sphere of protection. The second spell manifested a sort of sonic explosion that knocked the full circle of Death Eaters violently into the air.

With her every nerve buzzing, and her vision half-blinded by the blast, Hermione waited for the dust to settle.

She walked forward a few steps, her mind in a blank haze, her wand held out in a shaky hand.

He couldn't be…

Forward. A few more steps.

The dust was clearing. She could see him now. His face so still and pale, with his coal black eyes open and staring blindly into vacant space.

He was gone. Severus Snape, in whose arms she had lain only hours before, basking beneath his kisses and the soft rumble of his voice…

How could she have been so close and not made it? If only she had run faster. If only she hadn't stopped to help Buckbeak. If only—

But then, as she watched, Snape began to change. His hair grew lighter, his nose grew straighter. A thin line of scars appeared across his face, and…

"Not him," Hermione breathed.

It was Lupin. Dear, sweet Remus Lupin.

That first, fleeting burst of relief Hermione had felt at the realization that the Snape she saw was not the real Snape, almost immediately vanished as she was overcome by a crashing wave of despair. She realized at once that the real Snape had possession of her Phoenix potion. If he fell, he would rise again.

But Lupin did not. He could not. Lupin… was really dead.

"Not him," Hermione moaned and her legs gave out beneath her. She couldn't look at him. _Oh, Professor Lupin_.

As though from a distance, she could hear Mrs. Weasley's stifled sob. "Remus, dear, you _can't_…"

How could it be Lupin. Always so calm and competent, so quietly sincere. So determined to help, to do good in the world.

Hermione heard the scuffle of whatever able bodied Death Eaters had survived her blast scamper away in retreat.

She didn't care. Lupin was dead. He was gone now, like Sirius, perhaps together with him somewhere in the afterlife now, and neither of them ever again able to—

"Oi!"

Hermione's head shot up.

Mrs. Weasley and what looked like Snape — was that another non-Snape? — were standing over Lupin's body. They were staring, thunderstruck, because Lupin's body was moving.

Hermione scrambled to her feet and ran to Mrs. Weasley's side.

Lupin's eyes were open. His hands were stirring, and he was looking around—bewildered, in pain, but very much alive.

Everything, absolutely everything that still remained awake and aware in Hermione's brain came to a screeching, shuddering, bone jarring stop.

With no care for injury or shock, Hermione dropped to her knees and descended on Lupin, grabbing him by the collar of his robes and shaking him roughly. "Did someone give you a potion," she demanded. "A golden potion? Harry or Snape — _who was it_!" She tightened her grip on his robes so that her knuckles ached and she gave Lupin another rough shake. "WHO!"

Lupin's eyes were wide, his face white beneath his scars. "S-Snape," he managed to cough.

Hermione let go. She leapt to her feet again, heart hammering.

_That bastard. That idiot. That bloody stupid idiot bastard._

"Blimey," said the other Snape, looking abashed. "Thought he'd been hit with the killing curse. Thought for sure he was… He was…"

"I'm alright, Hagrid," said Lupin weakly, getting himself into a sitting position. "It's a… potion." He grit his teeth, flexing his wand arm. "Hermione."

She turned to look at him.

"Thank you for—"

But before he could say another word, somewhere far beyond the fighting, nearest the mansion, an enormous tower of flames fired into the air. Dumbledore's booming voice could be heard all across the grounds, shouting, "TO ME! TO ME!"

Hagrid-Snape looked up, eyes wide, skin pale as ice. "Right," he said, gripping his wand. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he turned and disapparated with a sharp crack.

"My wand," Lupin muttered, throwing himself down on all fours again, searching the ground for his lost weapon. The disorienting aftereffects of death still seemed to be lingering on the surface of his brain.

Hermione stared perplexed at the spot Hagrid-Snape had just vacated. Then she turned to Mrs. Weasley. "Where—?"

But Mrs. Weasley was sputtering, so red in the face that she looked on the verge of exploding. Then she teetered over the edge and let loose: "NEVER YOU MIND WHERE YOU LUNATIC GIRL FIRST FRED AND GEORGE AND NOW THIS WHO BLOODY ELSE HAVE YOU BROUGHT ALONG WITH WHAT IN MERLIN'S NAME DO YOU THINK YOU'RE—"

Mrs. Weasley bore down upon Hermione, trembling all over with shock and fright, her eyes fierce, her expression wild.

Hermione backed up a few steps in surprise. Her mind had not fully returned yet from the events of the past few minutes — Snape dying, Lupin dying, then both of them still being alive, but with the real Snape now out there somewhere bereft of the protection Hermione had given him — it was all very difficult to process. Meanwhile, Mrs. Weasley was advancing ever further, threatening to send her home, to send her away.

But Hermione couldn't _leave_, not now, not when she knew Snape was battling Bellatrix. That he could be lying on the grass, even at that very moment, all life having been blasted from his body. His empty eyes staring into nothing…

Mrs. Weasley at last pulled in a shaky breath and seemed to gather what was left of her wits. "Hermione, I—"

Mrs. Weasley was interrupted as Lupin, having found his wand, clambered to his feet. He walked over and drew Hermione into a fierce, brief hug, whispering a hoarse, "Thank you," into her ear. Then he stepped away, turned on the spot, and disapparated.

Hermione looked back at Mrs. Weasley, who gave her a watery grimace that might have been intended as a reassuring smile. But her nerves had the better of her. "Hermione, dear," she said shakily, putting a hand on her arm. "What I want you to do is—"

Once again, Mrs. Weasley was cut short as Tonks came running up, with Buckbeak the Hippogriff trotting close behind. Tonks was very winded, and there were great streaks of ash all over her clothes and across her small, round face. She was trembling, but seemed unharmed.

Tonks glanced quickly back and forth between Mrs. Weasley and Hermione. "Was that Remus just now?" she asked in a squeaky voice. "Back there, I thought I had — One of the Snapes you see, he fell next to me and it — I looked after him as well I could — So sure it was Remus — Not that I'm sorry, of course — It was McGonagall you see, and — after Buckbeak here — I revived her — then Dumbledore's voice, and she," Tonks made a snap in the air, "disapparated like that, without even a word. Was Remus going to join her? Where did they go?"

"Dumbledore's called them," replied Mrs. Weasley. She pointed towards the mansion, to where the tower of flames had been just moments ago. "Off that way somewhere, but I think—"

Tonks took off running.

"I THINK YOU SHOULD STAY WITH — damn it all," Mrs. Weasley cursed. She wiped the hair out of her eyes and glanced at Buckbeak, who stood nearby, poised and proud beneath his armor that shimmered in the faint glow of sunset. Daylight had almost vanished, at most a quarter of an hour from full darkness.

Mrs. Weasley grabbed Hermione by the shoulder and gave her a push. "You take Buckbeak, now. And you go — you go and find my wretched boys. You _get out of here_, you understand?" She snatched Buckbeak's reins and pressed them into Hermione's hands. Then she started backing away, getting ready to run after Tonks. "Please dear, I've — I've got to run now." She picked up her pace, almost jogging. "You find my boys!" she yelled, finally running into the darkness. "Get everyone home!"

Then she was gone.

Hermione was alone once more, and night was fast approaching.

Not too far away, Hermione heard a shrill scream — was it Bellatrix? In the past ten minutes or so, without her noticing, the sounds of battle had lessened somewhat. Whosever cry that was had been piercing. Except… Herimone could not tell if it was a call of triumph or defeat.

With a quick shake of her head and a thrill of nerves shooting suddenly up her spine, Hermione grabbed hold of Buckbeak's breastplate and heaved herself onto the Hippogriff's back.

Buckbeak made a sound of restless excitement. He pranced forward a few steps in several different directions while Hermione made up her mind. Then using the reins, Hermione guided Buckbeak towards the distant silhouette of Godric Gryffindor's manor, an enormous mass almost indistinguishable in the fading light.

Yes, she would take Buckbeak, as Mrs. Weasley suggested, but not to get her boys. Ron was with his father. And Fred and George… well, they were capable young men, brothers, who had each other to protect. They could take care of themselves. She also doubted very much that they would voluntarily sett off for home just because Hermione asked them to. They had as much right as anyone to be there.

Hermione gave Buckbeak's ribs a light tap with her heels and then Buckbeak leapt into a loping gallop across the lawn.

Things certainly had quieted down. No more explosions or deafening yells. There were still small groups of wizards dueling here and there, but most everyone had either taken shelter (behind hedges and trees and small fountains, or the protective shadows of armored Hippogriffs), or had migrated somewhere else.

Had the fighting moved? Hermione wondered. Was there another battle going on somewhere she didn't know about?

Black robes and masked faces seemed scarce.

But she could just be imagining it.

Within the next minute, Hermione reached the front steps to the mansion. Far off to the side, she could see Tonks and Mrs. Weasley bent over a man who had seemingly crashed there against a fountain. Even from a distance, Hermione could tell it was Mad-Eye Moody, with his wooden leg and his electric blue eye. He was writhing on the ground, apparently wracked with a mysterious curse that the two women were trying to break. She thought she saw Lupin too, hurrying up to join them.

Hermione turned as she heard footsteps and a shouted spell to her right.

Snape!

He was there, fighting someone. He was… Except, as Hermione watched him, he seemed a little out of sorts. Had he been hit by a spell? His movements were not clean, not sharp the way they usually were; they were slow and clumsy, and the way he seemed to lumber about despite his rail thin frame, he — _Oh!_

Hermione jumped as another Snape figure crossed her path, striding purposefully towards the far fountain where Moody lay.

That must be him! So tense and confident. But… not quite right, either. Was the first one him? Maybe just tired. Or the second? Maybe he… _Oh, this is ridiculous!_

Hermione nudged Buckbeak after the Snape that had just walked by. He gave a clipped yell of surprise as Hermione cut him off and he realized who sat atop the Hippogriff.

"_Miss Granger!_"

It was Professor McGonagall.

"Professor, I need to know where Snape went," Hermione said hurriedly, all the while feeling the anxiety churning in her stomach. She had been too late to help Lupin, what if she was too late to save Severus? She had to find him _now _— if only to know that he was OK and thus ease the fire in her heart.

McGonagall-Snape's eyes were wide. She stumbled for words. "How — How in Heaven's name did you find this—"

"It doesn't _matter_," Hermione snapped, and Buckbeak reared up a little, making a sound of equal impatience. "Where did Snape go — the _real_ Snape!"

"I — He — S-Severus went after Albus and Potter, with that – _mad_ Lestrange woman behind him, but—"

"_Where_ did they go?"

"Into the manor, Miss Granger, but—"

Hermione did not wait to hear another word. She wheeled Buckbeak around, and together they took off up the steps, Buckbeak's hooves clattering on the stone, Hermione's teeth clenched and her wand biting into the palm of her hand.

The great oak double doors were wide open. Hermione gripped the reins as they blasted through.

In the next second, the pit of Hermione's stomach dropped as she and Buckbeak suddenly plummeted downwards. The floor to the building was _gone_.

With a shriek of surprise, Buckbeak managed to throw out his wings and slow their fall enough to land safely a few moments later, but the jolt of the impact still threw Hermione forward over Buckbeak's shoulder and she hit the ground hard. Her ribs had been hurting her ever since Mrs. Weasley's foot caught her back when she had last been in Animagus form. She thought they had been bruised at the time; now, after her tumble, Hermione's breath would not come, and she began to think she might have fractured one.

Hermione took several minutes to regroup, rolling onto her back and staring upwards, trying to take in what had gone wrong.

Why had they fallen? Why was it so dark? What… was this place?

The mansion was not a mansion at all. Or, at least it might have been once, but the entire building was an empty void, like it had been utterly gutted from wall to wall. The insides were blackened, scored. She and Buckbeak had fallen at least three stories into the dark. Looking up, Hermione could see that the walls extended five floors or higher above the ground. Up at the top, where the roof should have been, was simply open air. What little light was left from the setting sun shone in from above in a gaping rectangle of light, making it seem as though she were looking up from the pit of an enormous tomb. If not for the many rows of windows on either side, that's exactly where she might have thought she was.

What had happened here?

The fine hairs on the back of Hermione's neck and arms stood on end. Whatever it was had been horrible. She could not help but felt that many people had died in the exact spot in which she lay.

Grunting and wincing with pain, Hermione rolled onto her front and pushed herself slowly to her knees. Best be moving on.

Buckbeak hovered close by; he did not seem to like it in there any more than she did. Hermione used him as support to pull herself to her feet, then she looked around for an exit.

The surrounding area was very dark, as the only source of illumination came from windows hundreds of feet up.

"_Lumos_," Hermione whispered, and a stream of light burst from her wand.

Within seconds she was off again at a brisk jog, holding her side, aiming for a door she had spotted at the far end of the… room? Pit? The air was so quiet around her, almost vacuous. She shivered, imagining all sorts of grotesque and dangerous creatures hiding out in the shadows, mere feet away from her on either side. Thankfully, Buckbeak continued to stay close, trotting behind her, though even the sound of his hooves seemed dulled in the oppressive silence.

When she reached it, the door was small and unassuming, its dark wood untouched by ash or scorch marks. Hermione reached out to turn the handle, expecting it to be locked. Even if it didn't open, she wanted to test its defenses first before she went about trying to break through.

To her utmost surprise, the handle turned and the door swung open with ease.

A long, stone hallway lay beyond, with flickering torches on the wall, and that dark, damp feeling of an underground tunnel. It extended distantly into darkness.

_Right, then_.

The opening was too small for Buckbeak, so Hermione turned to whisper to him, "You're going to have to stay here, Buckbeak," giving him a soft pat on the neck. She stepped forward through the doorway, then turned around again. "But you are going to have to," she said, hoping the Hippogriff could understand. "Stay, I mean. I'm stuck here if you don't. Alright? I can't climb walls and I haven't got wings for myself."

Buckbeak gazed back unblinking. Hermione thought he knew what she had asked. He owed her a life debt after all, and he did not seem to be taking that lightly.

_Right_…

Hermione took a deep breath (which caught in her chest as her ribs gave a horrible wrench), clenched her wand tighter, and set off down the hallway.

After only a few steps in, the door slammed closed behind her.

Hermione whirled around and ran back again, feeling the fear rising in her throat. Any second, something was going to grab her by the shoulder and drag her off to die.

The door opened without effort — but Hermione's initial relief was instantly whisked away as she found herself staring not at the place from which she had just come, but down another long, vacant hallway.

She looked behind her.

Still the same, empty hallway.

Except, the one in front of her looked exactly the same too. Which way was she supposed to go?

Hermione thought for a few minutes. It was so quiet, she could almost hear the gears working in her own brain.

Then, hesitantly, Hermione walked forward into the new hallway. She kept walking until she heard the door slam behind her again.

She jogged back to it, opened it, and—

"Buckbeak," she said in surprise.

She was back at the beginning, looking out into that ruined chasm of a room, with Buckbeak standing guard nearby. This was very confusing.

Hermione returned to the hallway, and closed the door herself. She opened it again; back to the hallway now. What did this mean? Was there a pattern to it, or did it just alternate when it felt like it? And was she in the first hallway now or the second hallway? She had to be in the second, because she hadn't moved, only the door had changed locations — meaning that what she was now looking at had to be the first place she had entered. Or was it a third?

She felt as though she could have lost days puzzling out the answer to this door, but it was important that she move on quickly. Dumbledore and Harry were fighting for their lives, and Snape couldn't be far away. She decided to walk down the new hallway, and see how far it led.

As Hermione walked, she began to take in her surroundings with more detail, feeling a deep uneasiness creep up her spine as she did so. This all seemed so familiar. It reminded her of the dungeons beneath the church, back in London, where her whole adventure with Snape had begun so long ago. That was the first moment in her life Hermione had truly thought she was going to die, when she truly thought she had run out of options and no one would be there, no Harry to come bounding in at the last second, no Ron with an unexpected burst of genius. Now, she was alone again, and her ribs hurt. The shooting pain made her memories of writhing beneath the Cruciatus curse all the more overwhelming.

Hermione was ashamed to realize that she was frightened.

_Frend is dead_, she had to keep reminding herself. He was dead, everyone knew that, the Ministry said so. He was _dead_. Travers had killed him and Snape had killed Travers.

_Snape killed Travers, Snape killed Travers_, she repeated to herself. _Killed Travers… because Travers was going to kill me_.

Hermione walked for a long time. Or at least it seemed so — for all she knew, she had been walking for five minutes. Time moved so differently in the haze of panic. At any moment, Hermione expected to come upon some sign of Voldemort or Dumbledore, or Harry or Snape — something to indicate where they had gone, how the battle was going. _Oh, Harry, be careful_, she thought. But surely he would be fine; he was with Dumbledore.

There was another door at the far end of the corridor and Hermione tensed, getting ready to open it. This was it. It had to be. Voldemort was just on the other side…

Hermione opened the door, then let out an exasperated, "_No_!" There was Buckbeak again. She had come right back to the beginning! Frustrated, feeling a violent urgency suddenly light up in her chest, Hermione slammed the door closed again. Then she opened it.

Hallway.

She slammed it closed again. Opened it.

Hallway.

Closed. Open.

Buckbeak.

Closed. Open.

Hallway.

Closed Open.

Buckbeak.

Hermione was halfway through the motion of closing the door again, tears of frustration already blurring her eyes, when Buckbeak let out a screech of alarm. But Hermione could not react in time and the door closed, cutting off Buckbeak's cry.

Heart pumping fast, Hermione began to cycle through the door's different locations again. There was no continuity! Hallway, hallway, hallway — time and again, Hermione threw open the door and found a stone corridor.

At last, she opened the door and found the enormous, ruined pit inside the mansion. Buckbeak was inches from the door, startling her as he beat his wings and reared, letting out a shriek.

"What is it?" Hermione asked loudly. She put out her hands as though to calm him, but Buckbeak sidled away and reared again, extending his talons and bucking his head as though to indicate something high above them.

Hermione ran out into the room and looked up.

Her mouth fell open. By God, there he was…

Snape and Bellatrix, way, way up in the air, were circling each other on brooms, darting and weaving, and nearly unseating each other with every turn. It was _him_, she knew it, the real him, the real Snape at last! He and Bellatrix were dueling with a breathtaking fury, their movements almost impossible to follow as they rolled and spun and looped around, throwing jets of colored light back and forth — and all the while, rising higher and higher.

As Hermione watched, Snape shot upwards, through the open ceiling at the very top of the house and flicked a spell at Bellatrix below. Bellatrix countered, and somehow sent two hexes back at him in quick succession. Snape managed to avoid the first. The second he was only just able to block — but the force of the blast threw Snape from his broom, and the broom was gone in an explosive shatter, blown away and lost into the growing darkness.

Snape fell wildly for a fraction of a second before he managed to grab hold of the edge of the top ledge of the house. Then he was hanging there from the roof, legs dangling, hundreds of feet from the ground.

Miraculously still in possession of his wand, with his one free arm, Snape hurled a curse at Bellatrix, a blinding flash of light that nearly engulfed her, and in that moment of distraction, he managed to pull himself up on the ledge.

Hermione was already pulling herself onto Buckbeak's back by that time. The second she had a grip, Buckbeak took a running start, beat his enormous wings, and launched into the air. "Come on, Buckbeak, come on," Hermione urged as they raced up to meet Snape; Bellatrix was circling around for her next attack.

"Come on, come on." They were at the ground floor. Now two stories up. Now three.

Snape blocked and dodged, and blocked and dodged, so precise and surefooted on a wire thin space, then—

Bellatrix flew right at him with her broom. Though Snape tried to prevent her, she avoided his spells, and with a well-placed kick to the chest Snape could do nothing to avoid, she sent him toppling over the far edge of the house — and five stories down.

With no time to think, Hermione threw Buckbeak into a furious plummet, faster than a shot, aiming for the second floor window, "_Go_," the wind blasting her face, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes, heart pounding, _not going to make it_, "Go, Beaky," and then, "_GO!_" she shrieked, as they hurtled bodily through the window with an explosive shatter of glass.

Hermione's breath was knocked out of her as something heavy crashed into her arms.

Snape.

In a flurry of limbs and feathers, and shards of raining glass, Buckbeak brought them all safely to the ground. He landed hard, and Hermione and Snape slipped off his back together onto the soft grass, still entangled.

Hermione gasped for breath as Snape tried to catch his. He rolled over dazedly, his brain not fully caught up with his current situation. Just as he was disentangling himself from Hermione's arms, he saw who it was who had saved him and then he immediately grabbed her up again. As though by sheer instinct, his body still pulsing with shockwaves of fright and relief, Snape held her close, smoothed the hair from her face. "_Darling_ girl," he choked. "I thought I'd — But you were there, always _there_ damn you, and—"

She gave him a shaky smile in return. In the split second she had to notice, beneath the very last dying sparks of sunlight, Hermione saw that Snape looked a bit worse for wear. His robes were rent and bloodied on his right side—quite a lot of blood, in fact. There was a great, ugly burn on his shoulder that extended nearly all the way up his neck. And his hair: he had—he was the only Snape who did, she realized—that familiar streak of white.

Caught by an overwhelming impulse, Hermione was just reaching up to thread her fingers through it, when Snape's expression changed. His mind seemed to jump up another rung of understanding and he realized again whom he was holding, where they were. His eyes grew wide and wild, and his fingers dug into her shoulders. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE," he bellowed. "HOW THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU—"

Snape was cut short as, out of nowhere, Buckbeak slammed into the pair of them, throwing them backwards just in time to save them from an explosive jinx that scorched the ground inches from their feet.

Wild laughter, followed by a shadow that swooped down low over their heads meant Bellatrix had followed them.

There was no time for anything. Snape had already clambered upright and grabbed for Buckbeak's reins.

"You—" Hermione started to say.

"GET OUT OF HERE," Snape roared back at her as she was scrambling to her feet, hoping to follow him in pursuit of Bellatrix.

But Snape was too quick, and had already mounted. He caught Hermione's eyes for a fraction of a second, and yelled at her as though everything in the world were crashing down around their ears, "_Hide yourself and STAY SAFE_!" Then he tapped the Hippogriff's heels and the two of them were off, up into the sky and out of sight.

Once he was gone, it became so dark, and so quiet, Hermione almost couldn't stand it. Was the battle over? She strained her ears for a few minutes, trying to make out a familiar voice — or an unfamiliar voice at that. There was no sound to greet her but the wind, and even that had died down to a mere breath of breeze. Where was everyone? Maybe she and Snape had fallen _behind_ the house, and the Order was on the other side, having captured or defeated the Death Eaters, now waiting for signs of Dumbledore and Harry.

Or, maybe it was the other way around.

"_Lumos_."

Hermione gasped as the wandlight illuminated dark red smears all over her clothes. Blood? No… She cast the beam from her wand around and saw that she and Snape had crashed through a garden of red flowers. She could smell the sticky sweetness of pollen clinging to her skin and in her hair. It was beginning to make her feel a bit ill.

Suddenly, there was a rustle of branches and a cough from somewhere behind her. Hermione whirled around and ducked down, shining her wand every which way. But everything was still and silent. The darkness was almost complete now.

She could hear the pounding of her heart like drumbeats in her ears.

"H-Hello?" she said softly.

No reply.

OK. This was something else, now. This wasn't battle out in the open anymore, it was danger in the shadows. She didn't like this. She didn't like this at all. She… She… _could turn into a rabbit any time she liked_.

Hermione whispered, "_Nox_," and dropped to all fours, laying her wand down amidst the grass and ruined flowers. The world grew taller, her eyesight sharpened, and the smell of pollen nearly overwhelmed her as she transformed into her Animagus form. Once settled, Hermione extended her long ears, straining to hear any sign of her hidden aggressor.

_There_. She heard a rustle of leaves, or perhaps robes, heavy branches knocking together, and what might have been a low moan. Where? The sounds had emanated from somewhere above her head — but as a rabbit, nearly everything was above her head. Far above her head, though, she thought. In a tree? It could be an animal just roosting there for the night. _A very large animal_, she realized, as the noises came again. Another hedge beast? Most likely it was a person. Hedge animals did not moan.

An enemy? An ally? Someone trapped — or in danger — or hurt?

Hesitantly, Hermione began to approach the direction of the sounds. As she drew closer to the base of a nearby tree, her senses began to go haywire. Her heart pumped so fast it made her head spin, and her every instinct seemed to be screaming at her to get away, get very far away.

She stood frozen, one paw lifted, ready to flee.

A hoarse, raspy voice cut the night air. "_Morse_… _mordre_," it gasped. "_Morsemordre_, _morsemordre_."

Hermione braced for a spell that did not come. There was no flash, no dark mark exploding into the sky. Still, the voice muttered on, "_Morsemordre_…"

She did not wait any longer to see what happened. She tore off through the grass, and all around the perimeter of the manor. When at last she reached the front steps, where she had spoken with McGonagall not half an hour ago, she found—to her immense relief—members of the Order, all gathered together at the foot of the stairs. They were milling about mostly, in silence, and it was so dark that she could not count them properly. It made her stomach churn to think how impossible it was that everyone would have made it through safe and alive. That battle had been madness; so easy to take one wrong step and fall into the path of a wayward curse. It was impossible to think that someone had not fallen. _Please not Ron_, she thought. _Please not a Weasley_.

She peered up at faces lost in shadow as she crept among them unnoticed. There was no one she recognized yet, though the faces she saw did not look triumphant. They looked wan and troubled, tense, anxious. _Why_? she thought. The Death Eaters had gone, hadn't they? Hermione even stumbled by a group of them bound together in a circle, unconscious, unmasked, and no longer a threat. McGonagall—now physically herself again—stood guard nearby.

Hermione considered setting up camp there beside her Professor, just to take a breath and figure out her next course of action, when she caught sight of Tonks and Professor Lupin a little ways off, sitting together on the raised edge of a fountain.

Hermione crept through the grass to sit at the ground near their feet, listening to them whisper quietly to each other and grateful for the company. Her ribs ached. Weariness began to overtake her the moment she had settled.

_Are they together_? Hermione thought, mildly aghast, as she felt rather than saw Lupin put his arm around Tonks and draw her close. It _couldn't_ be…

Then again, stranger pairings had certainly been made, she realized. She and Snape for one.

Snape… What she wouldn't give to be curled up beside him in safety, both alive and well and in each other's arms, without bother or notice… able to whisper… able to mend…

_Please be safe_…

As the night breeze blew, clouds drifted in to shroud out the moonlight, and with the soft sounds of Tonks and Lupin murmering to each other soothing her nerves, Hermione soon drifted off to sleep.

* * *

When Hermione woke, she knew immediately that something was wrong. From the stiffness in her body, she could tell that many hours had already passed. She opened her eyes to a rippling sort of darkness; clouds still shrouded the sky, but they were moving in and out with a quick wind. Patches of moonlight shone through now and again, and in these patches of illumination, Hermione could just see—to her gathering horror—tall, dark figures gliding towards them up the sloping lawn.

The air was frigid, a mist already beginning to gather. Someone screamed. Hermione looked up to see hundreds of black cloaks swooping down upon them from the sky. Dementors! She tried to leap to her feet, then realized that she had paws instead. Beside her, the lip of the fountain was empty; Tonks and Lupin had gone. She was separated from the rest of the Order, as they scattered out over the lawn, attempting to flee, attempting to fight back with Patronus charms (though they were so exhausted, and that particular spell so complex, that very few succeeded).

The Hippogriffs were spooked, and many of them took flight, shrieking, striking out at the elusive dark figures as best they could. Dementors were not alive, however, and could not be harmed through physical means, so the Hippogriffs were mostly in retreat.

The confusion and madness Hermione thought they had long left behind returned now, doubled almost by the added elements of cold and darkness, the growing mist, and the weak flashes of light that managed to flare up against the Dementors here and there amongst the crowd as thin wisps of Patronus charms struggled to be realized.

For a few moments, Hermione scampered around in random directions, wand clenched in her teeth as she searched for help, for safety, for somewhere to _hide_—until at last she realized that she was not being chased.

She was too small for the Dementors' interest.

The red haze of fear ebbed slightly from the peripherals of her vision and Hermione was able to slow down, to draw breath, to think.

But before she could altogether put her muddled mind in order, she heard a distant, "_Crucio!_" and then an answering scream.

"_Reducto!_"

"_Incarcerus!_"

"_Impedimenta!_"

"_AVADA KEDAVRA!_"

There were flashes of colored light everywhere, sounds of hexes clashing and rebounding off each other, and what seemed like _hundreds_ of loud cracks as suddenly Death Eaters were Apparating into the darkness all around.

The battle had begun again, more fraught than ever. And Hermione could not just sit there, she couldn't remain a rabbit, she _couldn't_. What had she come here for if not to help? To fight? But the thought of transforming so terrified her, she felt almost paralyzed.

Hermione's already pattering heart gave an enormous leap as, very nearby, she heard a long, drawn out, inhuman howl. The hairs of her body stood on end. It wasn't, it couldn't be… There came another scream—this one human. Hermione's nostrils seemed to fill with the smell of blood and fear and—

Hermione had a split second of warning before she had to leap aside just as a Dementor swooped down and took a swipe at her with one of its rotting hands. Hermione leapt again as it made another attack.

_Get away_! Hermione wanted to scream at it, cold dread striking through the marrow of her bones, a sick despair taking her over, but all that escaped her mouth was a sort of strangled squeal. Distantly, Hermione could hear a familiar voice. A deep, troubled voice full of ominous threat filling her ears. Then she heard the sound, she couldn't believe it, of Frend breaking her leg with the crack of a dark spell. She could almost feel her shinbone shatter—and then she could hear Severus crying out. Frend's voice bellowed, "_Avada Kedavra!" _The edges of her world began to fill with green light.

In desperation, Hermione started to run—as fast as it was possible to run. She had no idea where she was going, she was too blinded by fear and by the horror of memories. She ran and ran, her ears ringing, her head pounding, until eventually, at long last, she began to notice dried leaves beneath her paws. She could no longer see the green light at the edges of her vision, she realized, nor hear Severus's screams in the back of her mind.

Hermione blinked and looked around. She was deep in the woods, far outside the perimeter of Godric Gryffindor's estate. She stood there for a few minutes, trembling, trying as she drew breath to piece together what had happened. The Dementors… they had never done that to her before. Back at Azkaban, she had been in close contact with several of the creatures, and no such memories had visited her. But, perhaps then she had been too single minded, too focused on Snape's escape—and certainly there had not been so many Dementors as there were now.

Hermione's gut twisted as she thought about how many had flown down from the sky, catching everyone unawares. Who knew what sort of damage had already been done. She had to go back. She needed to transform and return to the battle—but she would not do so alone. First, she would cast her Patronus.

When she had transformed once more, and pulled herself tenderly to her feet (her ribs still pained her quite a lot), Hermione closed her eyes and tried to conjure in her mind the purest, most delightful memory she could imagine. In truth, she did not entirely know how to perform the Patronus spell. She had read about it, had heard Harry and Professor Lupin speak about it, but there was something yet more difficult she knew was required. But she did not know what that was. She would have to rely more on the strength of her memory and determination for the spell, her instincts and natural impulses rather than… any sort of… technical…

What was that?

Hermione could hear twigs snapping, she thought. Bushes rustling and the scraping of branches against—something very large that was pushing its way through the wood. Was it coming closer? Her pulse hummed. As best she could, she tried to hold her breath. The sounds were getting louder. Under the shuffle of leaves she could hear a course, ragged growling—almost, but somehow not quite fully, animal. Coming closer. Could it smell her? What was it? Please, not… It couldn't be…

There came a ripping loud howl just twenty or so feet to Hermione's left and she screamed, bolting deeper into the wood as fast as her feet could take her. It was Fenrir Greyback!

And he was after her—she could hear the crash of branches close behind, and a man, a beast, panting with giddy excitement.

Hermione pointed her wand over her shoulder. "_Reducto!_" she cried. There was an answering explosion, and then Greyback's laughter.

"Mudblood! Mudblood!" he cackled.

Hermione's lungs burned as she ran on. The trees and bushes whipped her face and her chest, but she tore through the undergrowth without heed. Up ahead she thought she could see the glow of moonlight on an open clearing. Open space—that would give her a chance to turn on Greyback, to fight, to escape. But could she reach it in time?

Greyback howled again, so very close behind her, Hermione could hardly remember how to put one foot in front of the other, she was so frightened. Again, she pointed her wand over her shoulder and shouted, "_Stupefy! Impedimenta!_" The spells seemed to disappear into a void for all the effect they had. Just twenty feet away from the clearing, now fifteen—run faster, _faster_! Branches cracked and crashed, as though the whole forest were being smashed to pieces under Greyback's weight. How big _was_ he? "_Stupefy_!" Hermione shouted again, her vision narrowing to little dots of light, her chest aching with the effort of pulling in breath. Almost there. Almost there. "_Stupefy_! _Stup_—" With spectacular speed, Hermione's foot caught the root of a tree and down she went, knocking all air from her lungs and smashing her nose into the dirt.

In her dazed shock, she had only enough sense of mind to register a passing wind as the hulking form of Fenrir Greyback soared overhead—having just leaped in for the kill and narrowly missed at the last second.

Hermione wasted no time. As Greyback rolled to a crashing halt through a bush and into the clearing, Hermione snatched up her wand, and from right there, belly down on the ground, she threw forth the loudest, most powerful "_STUPEFY!_" she could manage.

She watched in horror as the thick jet of red light hit Greyback directly on his broad back, and then ricochet off into the dark, leaving no trace of itself behind but for the smallest of singed imprints on his tattered clothes.

Greyback began to pull himself almost leisurely to his feet. He turned to look at her, blood dripped from his mouth and down his chin in congealed rivulets, shining in the moonlight. Hermione stared at him in paralyzed shock. He stared right back, unblinking, with his cavernous, yellow eyes. "Good try, Mudblood," he rasped.

Why didn't her spells work? Hermione thought. Was it something about being a werewolf? Like Giant's blood, where it repelled minor spells? Did she need to try something stronger?

Suddenly, with no more warning than a slight intake of breath and a jerk of his arm, Greyback came at her again, full speed.

There was no time to think. Hermione knew she couldn't use her wand. She felt something solid and round beneath her right elbow and she rolled to the side, grabbing it up in both hands, and then coming full around, swinging her weapon as hard as she could at the approaching Greyback.

What turned out to be a very heavy tree branch crashed into the side of Fenrir's head and cracked through the middle in an explosion of splintered wood. Greyback howled with outrage, falling to the side and clutching his jaw with his clawed hands.

Hermione scrambled up and away as quick as she could, holding her ribs which ached like fire, making each breath agony. She grit her teeth and flicked her wand once more at Greyback's prostrate form, gasping, "_Stupify!_" for the last time. Again, the spell had no effect. _Why didn't it work?!_

Fenrir was already beginning to recover himself, and Hermione was on the brink of running for shelter to reevaluate her next move, when she heard someone—from the other side of the clearing—call out her name.

"Hermione!"

It was Professor Lupin. He was running quickly through the grass, wand outstretched, with a very strange, white-fury look on his face that Hermione had never seen before.

"Professor, what are you—"

"_REDUCTO!_"

Lupin's spell blasted Greyback, who was just about to regain his feet, backwards into a tree. Then Lupin swished his wand again and sent a netting of thick ropes flying through the air, which then ensnared Greyback's arms and legs so that he hit the ground, thrashing and snarling and howling with all his might.

Hermione realized that she was standing with her own wand outstretched, pointed at Greyback—but she was still not sure what to do.

"He must be killed, Hermione."

Hermione looked at Lupin in shock. He stared back, the lines of his face drawn tight, his skin white in the glow of starlight, and his brown eyes blazing with something Hermione did not understand—but feared all the same.

"I can't," she stammered. "I—I—"

"Of course not," he said, taking a step forward. "I will, I must. I only meant... He deserves it, you have to understand. You have no idea what… what he's done, and how much… how much he _deserves_…" But Lupin's arm shook as he held out his wand. He leaned his body forward as though trying to force himself to walk, only his legs would not obey.

They stood this way for several long moments—with Hermione paralyzed and shivering, Lupin gritting his teeth and willing himself move. All the while, Greyback's ropes were breaking under the will of his strength, tearing under his razor sharp teeth.

The seconds pressed on. Hermione was just about to work up the nerve to approach Lupin, to reason with him, and tell him that surely they could figure out another way, when there came another disturbance from the forest: A snap of twigs, the rustle of bushes, something loud that sent several crows flying, squawking into the air—and there was Professor McGonagall, bursting into the clearing.

McGonagall took three determined strides toward them, her robes streaming out behind her. She pointed her wand and said sharply into the night, "_Avada Kedavra!_"

There was a flash of green light, then all at once Fenrir Greyback's horrible thrashing, his groans and roars of outrage, were instantly silenced. He lay still, the half mutilated ropes wrapped around him now loosened from tension. In less than a fraction of a second, he was just a black shape, huddled against the roots of a tree.

With mirrored looks of disbelief, Lupin and Hermione watched McGonagall approach. There was some sort of slick, shiny substance that covered a good part of her robes, and as she got closer, eliminating the final distance between them, Hermione could see that the substance was a dark, deep red, and could not be mistaken for anything else. But whose blood was it? It couldn't be McGonagall's; here she was walking around, and anyone who had lost that much would surely be close to death. There were also long, angry burn marks that snaked up McGonagall's wrists and forearms, as though she had been caught up and tangled in ropes of fire. Everywhere on her body were signs of struggle and peril, but her expression was calm. Her eyes were steeled, her mouth set in a line of thinned determination. There were those, Hermione realized, who crumbled under pressure, who looked into the faces of their enemies and discovered suddenly that they were afraid.

It seemed that Minerva McGonagall was not one of those people.

McGonagall came to a stop next to Lupin (who still stood where he stood, holding out his wand in a trembling hand). "This is war," she replied coolly to their stares. "And in war, you do not take risks, you eliminate them. Come now. Back to the front—there is fighting yet to be done." She gestured at them to follow her. Then she turned, and began to walk back the way she had come.

Hermione and Lupin followed without a word.

* * *

Halfway through their return journey, Hermione managed to ask McGonagall—in a very tentative, ashamed sort of way—if she might be able to do something about the pain in Hermione's ribs.

McGonagall gave her a shrewd look and nodded, crouching next to her and muttering the same, strange incantation Hermione had heard from Snape so many long months ago when he had healed her knee in the Forbidden Forest.

Within minutes, Hermione felt all but healed again, and without a word, McGonagall stood and the three of them commenced their stoic march.

The woods were just so quiet. It was difficult for Hermione to work up the nerve—but she had to know. "Professor…" she said quietly. McGonagall glanced over her shoulder as they walked. She seemed able to read Hermione's question on her face before she could speak.

"It is not my blood, Miss Granger—nor anyone you know. A Hippogriff, bless it. I was…" she shook her head, "careless. Caught myself in a trap." She lifted her arm to show the rope burns. "That werewolf beast was upon me and a Hippogriff put itself between us, only to be torn to bits. Brave bloody soldiers, those creatures, loyal to a fault."

Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded. "And you, Professor, how did—" Hermione turned to look at Lupin, but her voice caught when she saw his hollowed gaze.

"How did I find you?" Lupin said in a raspy sort of voice. "I was tracking… I was after… him, Greyback, he… he attacked—"

"For pity's sake, she is not dead, Remus," snapped McGonagall sharply.

"No, but—"

"In fact, last I saw her, she was hardly wounded at all."

Lupin blinked. He seemed to let out a breath and that strange fury began to retreat from the lines of his face. "You mean she's…"

To Hermione's utmost surprise, McGonagall rolled her eyes. "Strong though your instincts are, I'm sure, to enrapture us all with your glory blaze of righteous revenge—you seem ill suited for the job, Remus. And Nymphadora has but bumped her head. Next time, I suggest you take a moment to reconsider the situation, to perhaps recognize the haze of battle nerves for what they are before you go running about the forest brandishing your sword and leaving the rest of us a man down in the meantime. Though, I suppose it is fortunate in the end, for if you had not been following Greyback, Miss Granger, here, would have no doubt succeeded in getting herself killed."

Hermione prickled at the last, hating for her efforts to be thought of so dismissively. "Actually, I had it mostly under control, Prof—"

McGonagall's gaze was so withering and so fierce then, Hermione felt her knees actually weaken to jelly so that she lost a step and had to stumble to recover.

Clearly, McGonagall did not take well to her students—favorite or otherwise—disobeying orders when they were expressly told to remain where they were put.

Well, anyway, Hermione though moodily, as she once again fell into a confident stride beside Lupin, she was here now, and alive, and she had done her share to help, so McGonagall could pretty well stuff it.

Another thought crossed her mind, and Hermione cleared her throat. "Um, Professor,"—she addressed Lupin this time—"Why didn't my spells work against… uh…" She looked over her shoulder, for some reason expecting him to come charging down the path after them. "Greyback."

Lupin shrugged. "I couldn't tell you. There's always been something about him that wasn't… quite normal. I say that while knowing that being a Werewolf is not strictly normal to begin with, but there's something about his human nature that fused with his wolf nature and then never seemed to separate again. Werewolves, when transformed, can often deflect minor spells—I've been attacked on several occasions and can tell you the truth of this. So perhaps Greyback retains that quality even when the moon is not full." Lupin shrugged again. "Though to be honest, Hermione, I haven't the faintest idea. And…" He shot a furtive glance in McGonagall's direction. "I suppose now we will never know."

Finally, after another few, long, silent minutes of walking, they halted at the edge of the forest. Over the distant rise of Gryffindor's lawn, Hermione could hear much yelling and see the familiar flashes of spells. Her throat felt tight.

McGonagall raised her wand and turned to Lupin and Hermione when they had stopped, saying firmly, "Patronuses, I'm afraid. Dementors are still in force."

Lupin nodded grimly and muttered a quiet, "_Expecto Patronum_." Out of the tip of his wand burst an enormous, shaggy, silver dog, that loped once around the three of them and then came to rest at Lupin's side. In response to Hermione's questioning look, Lupin smiled sadly. "Sirius was a good friend," he said.

Hermione felt a sick, heavy feeling ignite in the pit of her stomach.

McGonagall cast her Patronus next: A great, gleaming cat, with thick fur and bright eyes, and that was twice the size a normal cat should be.

Then both Professors looked at Hermione, who winced in return. "I…"

"Don't know how," finished Lupin.

Hermione nodded, her cheeks flaming.

Quickly, but thoroughly, Lupin ran through detailed instructions, with Hermione nodding along quietly and only asking the occasional question. When she was ready, Hermione positioned her wand and tried to conjure in her mind the most powerful happy memory she could imagine.

_Winning the battle_, she thought. _The fight being over, and all of us safe and celebrating_. But, that was no good, because the anxiety that took hold of her when she thought about the battle still underway tainted her happiness. Then, Pruitt cottage, of course, came to mind, and her perfect day there with Snape—however, much though she thought she should be able to use such memories, they were too interlaced with pain and death, with Sirius, and Frend's horrible blue eyes. School, then? Anything at school—surely, with Harry and Ron—but as she cycled through everything in the back of her head, all Hermione managed to realize was that every memory had so much worry—she was _always_ worried!—and too much danger. How did they always manage to get themselves into trouble? Never a moment to rest. Never a second to breathe.

Except… Just once… When all was safe… For the shortest of hours…

Suddenly, almost unbidden, Hermione heard the soft, sweet notes of a piano in the back of her mind—the song of clouds and windy cities, street lamps at dusk, red wine and dancing on rooftops… She let the music fill up all the spaces in her head, one note at a time, and as she did so, she could almost feel Snape's hands moving on her skin, the rumble of his voice in her ear, the white fire of his kisses, and when she closed her eyes and saw a glimpse of his deep, happy, secretive smile—

"_Expecto Patronum_!" With a flash of white light, Hermione produced from the end of her wand a magnificent silver serpent—sleek and shining, and with such a sense of entitled nobility that it immediately reminded Hermione of Severus. The snake slipped through the air, encircling Hermione tenderly in a warm, wonderful light, making her skin glow. Then she blinked and looked up to see McGonagall and Lupin staring at her with very perplexed expressions.

"Uh…" Hermione stumbled, searching for something to say. How in the world to explain? "Uh… It's, um… Family pet," she managed lamely.

McGonagall gave a grunt, unconvinced. Lupin, too, looked skeptical. But the matter did not seem to merit any further investigation, because at McGonagall's signal, they set out once more, emerging from the protective shadows of the forest and across the open expanse of Gryffindor's moonlit grounds, up the sloping lawn, towards the waiting battle. And all the while, Hermione's serpent slipped through the air in a protective halo around her. Every time it passed close to her ear, she could hear—she swore she could hear—music, as though Snape's song were emanating from the very creature itself. The sound gave her heart strength, made her feel hopeful for the first time since she and the Weasley boys had first materialized on the dirt road outside town. If only such hope would last, she thought, if only it would be enough to see her through…

Sooner than expected, in no time at all it seemed, they were beyond the hedges and in the thick of it once more.

Dementors came at Hermione from every direction, rattling and gasping, stretching out their bony hands. Her Patronus lashed out faithfully, whipping its long tail and bearing its fangs at anything that dared attack.

From the darkness, a spell came at Hermione. She ducked just in time and sent a retaliatory jinx back at the Death Eater, whose silhouette she could only just make out a few feet away. The Death Eater blocked her spell with ease. Then he wound up for another attack, so fast, Hermione barely had time to register that she needed to readjust her wand position for a protective spell. From somewhere on her left, McGonagall stepped forward and blocked the Death Eater's attack before it had hardly begun. Then she sent the robed figure to the ground with a quick stream of red light and turned to Hermione, saying, "Quick as a cat, Miss Granger, on your toes. I know I've taught you better than that."

Hermione nodded in return, feeling emboldened, letting her chest fill up with it. McGonagall _had_ taught her better, and Hermione would be damned if she didn't spend every last ounce of will she had in proving it.

* * *

The battle outside Godric Gryffindor's manor raged on until nearly dawn.

For the most part, Hermione stuck close to McGonagall. Lupin, she only saw for a few minutes when they first arrived, before he was off to defend Tonks, somewhere far beyond the wide, gravel path on which Hermione stood.

Other than that, she saw almost no one but enemies. In the time since Hermione had fled to the wood, the Order had managed to gather back some degree of control and had formed a sort of unofficial line of defense, encircling the manor, each of them responsible for a certain territory — and once Hermione found her footing, she dared not leave her post (as she had come to consider it).

Hours passed at a grueling pace.

Hermione's strength was so fleeting by the end of it, she could hardly keep her legs from giving out — but they were winning. The Death Eaters had all but gone. Half an hour previously, Buckbeak had found her in the dark, so Hermione was able at least to lean on him, to seek protection behind his armor and catch her breath.

The fact that Buckbeak had shown up without a rider was not lost on Hermione.

But if she thought about that fact too hard, she would certainly get herself killed. She needed to remember what McGonagall said. Lupin had acted rashly, now Hermione would learn from his mistake. It would be foolish of her to go running off at such a critical moment to look for Snape, when he very well might be just on the other side of the manor, alive and well and waiting for everything to stop so they could find each other again.

In any case, she would not have to wait long to find out, surely.

After hours of struggle, the battle had at last turned in favor of the Order. In the end, to everyone's surprise, what brought them their victory were the Dementors — who, after discovering that the Order proved apt in conjuring powerful Patronuses, began to attack their fellow dark Wizards instead. The Death Eaters were unable to ward off the specters, either from lack of knowledge of lack of happy thoughts, and when the last of their feeble Patronuses died out, they fled. Then, as the final masked man disapparated with a crack, the Dementors, too, sensed their defeat and took flight, escaping not only the glow of so many Patronuses, but also the coming rays of morning light.

At once, there was a cheer of triumph. They won! They did it! But the cheer was quickly stifled, for Harry and Dumbledore had yet to emerge from Godric's manor.

And Hermione had yet to see a sign of Severus Snape.

As sunrise finally began to peek out over the top of the hedges, illuminating the staggering wreckage left behind on the field of battle, Hermione looked around and the first person she saw — with an enormous sigh of relief that reached into the very depths of her chest at the sight of that shock of red hair — was Ron Weasley.

Oh, how she wanted to run to him, and hug him and weep with exhaustion. But she held back for some reason, not wanting to give herself over to her emotions just yet. She wanted to prove that she could maintain herself, keep composure. Perhaps this had something to do with the straight-back presence of Professor McGonagall, whom Hermione could just see at the edge of her peripheral vision. Or perhaps Hermione simply wanted to prove such things to herself.

Either way, Hermione disentangled herself from Buckbeak and, on shaky legs, calmly approached her dear friend.

Ron let out an enormous breath when he saw Hermione, putting a hand to his head as though he very well might faint with relief. He seemed unhurt, but he was so pale, and trembling all over, and—she realized, as Ron promptly let out a small cry and grabbed her up in a tight hug—sopping wet.

"You're alright," he said weakly. "You're…" He pulled back and did a slight double take, staring at the big, red stains all over Hermione's clothes.

She waved him off. "Flowers," she said. "Just red flowers, and — well, I wouldn't be surprised if some of it was blood, honestly. Professor Snape was covered in it." She paused, feeling her heartbeat quicken despite herself. "You… haven't seen him, have you?"

Ron shook his head. "Not for a few hours in any case. Last I saw, he was on foot, chasing after Bellatrix Lestrange into the mansion."

So… Hermione thought. Snape, too, was missing somewhere beneath their feet. No doubt, once sensing the changing tide of battle, Bellatrix had fled to her master with the news, or perhaps to seek his protection. And Snape had followed. Wherever they were now, they were with Voldemort. And Harry. And Dumbledore.

Hermione took a deep breath, endeavoring not to think about that just yet. She gave Ron another once-over as she searched for something else to say. "Why are you wet, by the way?" she asked.

Ron gave her a weak, half-smile. "Right, that. Well, there was all that fire being thrown about, I'm sure you remember."

She nodded.

"And, it's all kind of a blur really, but there was this woman who was trapped—flames all around her. I didn't have time to think, so I just sort of waved my wand and doused myself with water and jumped in to grab her. When that worked pretty well, I thought it might be a good idea to keep doing that, hosing myself down every so often — you know, as a precautionary measure."

Hermione blinked in surprise. "That's… very smart, Ron. I never thought to do that."

From behind Ron, Arthur Weasley walked up to join them. He, too, was wet, having followed his son's example. He clapped a hand on Ron's shoulder and beamed down at him proudly. "Didn't lose your head, that's for sure. Hello, Hermione — are you alright? Uninjured?"

Hermione nodded, and looked around behind them as a thought occurred. "Where's…" But then Hermione could not make herself say it, fearing the answer if bad news prevailed.

Ron's eyebrows furrowed. Then he understood. "Oh, Mum, you mean? She's off trying to find Fred and George. A complete wreck, mind you. It really did a number on her, seeing us all here in the middle of things. Though I guess I can't rightly blame her. The reason she was risking her life in the first place was to ensure that we wouldn't have to risk ours."

"Well put," said Mr. Weasley. "I suppose I should be yelling at you too, but I'm afraid I'm not as young as I used to be, and I just haven't the strength for it. I'm sure we'll be discussing an appropriate punishment later, when the family's all together again."

Ron grimaced, but not in the way that Hermione had expected. He seemed ashamed, apologetic, and very much aware of what he had just put his parents through. It was then Hermione realized that something had changed in Ron since she parted ways with him not too many hours ago. He had grown up.

And so had she, Hermione thought. In a way. It felt… strange to notice such a thing about oneself, and she was not entirely sure how she felt about it. So, instead, she changed the subject. "Your brothers," she said after a few moments. "I haven't seen them since the beginning, when they took hold of that Hippogriff. Have you…" she trailed off, because Ron shook his head again slowly. Mr. Weasley adopted a very strained, white sort of look on his face.

"That's why Molly's off searching," said Mr. Weasley. "Said she saw them for a brief spell maybe half an hour into the fight and then not a peep from them since. In fact… I said I would stay at my post, but seeing as it's all quieted down now… I'm sorry, Hermione — Ron. You two, uh… stay together, alright? Just… stay here. I'll be straight back when I've heard word…" After readjusting his glasses and taking a moment to assess the surrounding scene, he took off at a light jog.

Hermione saw him pause a little ways down the lawn when he was hailed by Professor McGonagall. The two of them stood talking for a brief minute, and then both of them were jogging away, along the perimeter of the house.

Ron and Hermione remained still and quiet for a while, neither of them ready—nor perhaps even feeling the need—to discuss what had occurred over the past night.

Eventually, Hermione broke the silence. "Do you think we made the right choice?" she asked.

Ron seemed to think on this before replying. "I thought we did, at first, but… With everything that's happened, with all those near misses, and with my brothers… my…" He trailed off, something in the distance having caught his attention.

"Your…" Hermione prompted.

When Ron did not immediately go on, Hermione turned to look for herself.

The moment she recognized the approaching figures, she let out a cry. "Your brothers!"

She and Ron started running at once, meeting up with Fred and George in fact very near the place Hermione had caught Snape in the air—that had been so fast, so close. She thought she could see the glimmer of broken glass amongst the flowers.

Meanwhile, George was leaning heavily on Fred, and his shirt had been ripped to shreds. Both boys were stained all over with blood, but aside from exhaustion neither of them seemed hurt, and both were smiling.

"What happened to you?" said Ron and Fred at the same time.

"You first," said Hermione and George.

The four of them laughed, and then George went on. "Just a scratch, really."

Fred shook his head. "That bloody Hippogriff. You two made the right choice, staying on the ground—nearly killed us, it did, and more than once at least."

Hermione's mouth fell open a little as she pointed at George's torn shirt. "Did—did the Hippogriff do—"

"No, no," said Fred hastily.

George grimaced. "I was stupid."

"He got cursed, it wasn't his fault. In any case, we were in the air and he had the navigation. That idiot bird spooked when George got all sliced up and I tried to grab for the reins, get the thing under control again, but it kept flying higher and higher. George sort of passed out, I think. Then we fell."

Hermione let out a small sound of distress. Her stomach churned and she felt her face go white. "How did you…"

Fred and George looked at each other, then they smiled.

"An Order member," Fred said. "He swooped down out of nowhere with his broom and slowed our fall—enough to cushion our landing in any case."

"And we fell into a pool," added George.

Fred nodded. "Then he healed George. _Impressive_ magic, to say the least."

"Who was it?" asked Ron.

"Some guy named Sarofim. Afterwards, he said something about being glad to have had a chance to repay our dad the favor. I don't know what he was going on about. Actually, have you seen Dad, by the way?"

"Yeah, just a minute ago." Ron pointed off in the direction Mr. Weasley and McGonagall had disappeared. "That way."

"Do you think we should go after him, or wait here, do you think?"

Ron raised his hands helplessly. "He said he would be back. He was going to find Mum and help her look for you two. She's been out searching since—"

But Ron was cut off as they heard an enormous cheer rise up from around the front of the house. Shouts and whoops, and cries of triumph—and seconds later, with bangs, and bursts of color, fireworks that were magically shot into the air.

Hearts in their throats, the four of them took off running and raced around the perimeter of the house to find the waiting crowd of Order members by the stairs, all leaping and crying, and holding each other, and laughing.

And there, in the midst of it all, was Harry.

They rushed immediately forward to get to him, through the crowd to his side. Hermione was first to arrive—and was subsequently the one who caught him as Harry stumbled off the steps and fell into her arms for an embrace like none she had ever had.

"I've done it," Harry said in her ear.

Hermione felt tears prick behind her eyes.

The Weasleys had to have been waylaid at some point, perhaps by their parents, because Hermione realized that it was just she and Harry, standing there together in a small space, surrounded on all sides by celebrating witches and wizards.

Hermione pulled back, and so did Harry. He looked tired, but Hermione could not manage to make her brain notice anything else about him other than the fact that he was alive. And that his eyes were so very green. And that his scar had gone.

"I did it, Hermione," he said again.

Hermione tried to push down the sobs now welling up in her throat. "Harry, you… Oh, Harry. You… you… How did you do it?"

"I… used my wand."

Hermione made a small noise of amusement. "Well, yes, Harry, I gathered as much. But what spell? What sort of incantation could possibly—"

"No, no," Harry waved his hands—which were shaking, she saw, with magnificent tremors. "I used my _wand_, Hermione." He held it up. There was something strange about it. "Stabbed him. Straight through to where it was sure to kill him. Right here, on the underside of his…" Harry pointed to the underside of his jaw, where the flesh was soft and vulnerable. Hermione realized at once what was strange about Harry's wand. The whole of it—right up to the handle, was stained and blackened.

_Stabbed_ him? …With _that_?

_Brave bloody sword-wielding Gryffindor, indeed_, Hermione thought. But all she could manage to say aloud was a drawn out almost reverently whispered, "Holy shit."

"Yeah," was all Harry said in reply.

"But—but," Hermione sputtered. "But how did you manage do it?"

Harry shrugged, shaking his head at the same time. It must have been so overwhelming for him, but he must have wanted to tell her, because he managed to put it together. "Your potion, Hermione," he said. "You see, none of my spells were working, so I—well I've never been great shakes with magic, you know that. At least not good enough to battle Voldemort. I sort of knew from the start that straight dueling wasn't going to work, or any variation on that. I _was_ counting on Dumbledore being there to help, because he was the one with all the answers, but…"

The pit of Hermione's stomach dropped. "Don't tell me—"

"No, he's alright, Dumbledore's fine, he's just fine. In fact, he came out right behind me, he's somewhere around here… Anyway, Dumbledore was there beside me as we chased down Voldemort, all through the—there was this maze of tunnels underground—and we ran through them after Voldemort, for _ages_, we were running. It must have been hours, but I couldn't tell you how long. Then we got to this big room, like a throne room or something—there were these throne looking things there, four of them, and each one had a pile of bones—at least I think that's what they were—and above them were big portraits of the Hogwarts Founders. Voldemort had done something… horrible. Probably even Dumbledore doesn't know how he did it. But out of nowhere, the four Founders—Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, _and_ Slytherin were all there—like their ghosts or something, or their bodies, or I don't even know, but they were _there_. It was their skeletons, I think—Voldemort must have found their remains and done something, because they were possessed, they started attacking Dumbledore. You see, that's why it was just me and Voldemort at the end. I was on my own because—Hermione, you should have seen it—Dumbledore was fighting all _four_ of the Hogwarts founders. All of them at once. It was… incredible."

Hermione could hardly breathe, waiting for Harry to go on. She couldn't imagine. The founders of Hogwarts… possessed by Voldemort… To what dark depths did that man's power reach?

"Anyway, the point is, I knew I was going to lose. The only thing I had was that gold potion, and I… Honestly, I suppose I didn't have any other choice, but I decided to trust you, Hermione—something that has never served me wrong in the past, I must say—and do the only thing I could do. I… let him kill me."

"Oh, Harry…"

"The element of surprise was my only weapon. That, and my wand. But as he was walking towards me, and I started to—to—you know, come back—I couldn't think of any spells. I tried and tried, but by then he was there and it was too late, so I just reacted. I knew I had to kill him, so I did what instinct told me and used the weapon I had in my hand. And…" Harry gave the most deeply weary, wise, and powerfully sad half-smile Hermione had ever seen. "It worked. He's dead." Harry paused, then said, "And all because of you."

Hermione felt herself laughing and crying and cheering all at once—yet all of it silently in her head because she couldn't find the energy to possibly express the full extent of what she was feeling. Everything was over at last. Everything, all their struggles and fears, and all of it so unpredictable but somehow fated. How did they do it? It wasn't just luck; they had certainly had their share of misfortune. But still it was all such a tumble of things building upon themselves and building and moving forward until here they were suddenly, at the end of it, with Harry alive and Voldemort dead… "And all because I missed my dinner!" she said suddenly aloud.

Harry stared back at her questioning. "Uh…"

Hermione's mind was in a fantastic, whirling tornado of thoughts and memories and overwhelming emotions. "Ages ago, I fell asleep in a lesson," she babbled, "and Snape never woke me so I missed my dinner, and if I hadn't fallen asleep, Snape wouldn't have punished me, I wouldn't have wanted revenge, got detention, seen him summoned by Voldemort, thought I'd poisoned him, and I wouldn't have been there to save him that night, so we wouldn't have _largitio_, I wouldn't have been able to make the phoenix potion, and you'd be dead, Harry, you wouldn't have revived to save the world, and all because he made me miss my dinner! By God, it's a good thing Snape's such a bastard!"

The both of them laughed, Hermione clutching Harry, and Harry clutching her right back.

Harry ran his hand through his hair as he took several deep breaths. "Snape was a bloody, hero, Hermione, I don't mind saying," he said, a bit more serious now. "Bellatrix came bursting in near the end, and we all thought we were done for, because Dumbledore was just barely hanging on as it was. I was on the ground, seemingly dead. He wasn't prepared for that to happen, I think, and he sort of lost it, he'd almost given up on the will to keep going—and with Bellatrix suddenly attacking him too, it was looking impossible. But then Snape was there, and killed her—he killed Bellatrix and saved Dumbledore. He also knew about the potion, of course, he saw me and knew I wasn't dead, and damned if he didn't start attacking Voldemort, distracting him, at _exactly_ the right moment! Because right as Snape drew Voldemort's fire." Harry motioned with his wand. "Straight through. Over in less than a second. And I couldn't have done it without Snape. He… really saved us down there."

The turmoil of emotions in Hermione's chest swelled so full she could barely get out the words. "And I saved him," she breathed.

Harry smiled and gave Hermione's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "Yes, you did."

Then… Just then…

Hermione heard something—perhaps a slight sound from the surrounding crowd, or the creak of a door hinge, or the fall of his footstep, or maybe it was just the music of his soul that somehow reached out through the air and touched her beneath her chin, tipping up her head so that as she looked along the wide stairs to the very top where the doors of Gryffindor's mansion stood open, Snape was there at last. Tall and slim and clothed all in black, his dark hair shining with that stripe of white gleaming in the rising sun, and his pale hands at his sides as he descended the stairs, every inch of him exuding that elegant, hard-won, confident pride that was so very much his own.

Just as Severus Snape reached the second landing midway down the stairs, Hermione gave out a cry. She threw herself forward and ran up the stone steps, taking them two at a time, tears stinging her cheeks, and she tackled him to the ground right there, hitting him and punching him all over.

"You gave it to someone else!" she shrieked. "You stupid, stupid man—I can't believe you did that! I gave it to you and you gave it away! My potion, my rules, you _knew_ it but you bloody did it anyway! You idiot man, how could you!"

But through it all, Snape was laughing. And within moments, Hermione's blows turned to kisses and her arms wrapped tightly around his neck as his arms wrapped tightly around her back.

"I'm alright, aren't I?" he said gruffly, making her head spin with the sound of his voice. "Stop fussing."

Hermione buried her face in his shoulder, all but sobbing now. "I can damn well fuss if I damn well want to, you big bloody oaf! I've never been so frightened!"

Snape laughed again, and stroked her hair. She kissed his cheek and reached up to thread her fingers into that single lock of white at his temple. She was entirely lost in a world that was him, just him and only him, when Snape suddenly cleared his throat. "Hermione," he said warningly into her ear, as though just having noticed himself. "People are watching."

Hermione looked up at last, and turned her gaze to the side to see that absolutely everyone within hearing distance, in fact all of the crowd still gathered at the foot of the stairs, were watching them—and each of them with expressions of horror, disbelief, their faces various shades of color; from Tonks's delicate pink to Ron's fierce red, McGonagall's deep purple to Harry's tinge of green (who, in fact, looked so nauseated by the sight of them, that he seemed to be moments away from emptying the contents of his stomach all over the grass).

Hermione took one look at them, then one look at the battered, handsome, soot smeared, smiling face in her arms, and felt her heart sing.

"Oh, sod them all!" she said with a laugh, and, with everyone still watching, she leaned down to kiss her dear Severus full on the mouth, tongue and all.

* * *

**...**

**The End**

**...**

* * *

A/N: My gosh, here we are. After how many years now? There are so many of you I want to thank, JFig/Buggo, oddmentandtweak, misundersnape, Capt. Blue-Eyed Jane, debjunk, and so, so many, many more who I'm sure have been there for so long, being so vocal and supportive and awesome, and thank you to EVERYONE for making me smile every day! I don't even know how to begin. You guys are AWESOME. This damn story has been so long in the making, it is frankly stupid to think about. But despite it all, there we are, all finished and done and once and for all and forever at last we can finally finally FINALLY officially label it "complete."

AND YOU KNOW WHAT? NO ONE DIES. SCREW IT. I DON'T CARE. I DO WHAT I WANT. LUPIN AND TONKS AND SNAPE AND DUMBLEDORE AND ALL THE DAMN WEASLEYS. EVERY DAMN LAST ONE OF THEM. THEY LIVE I TELL YOU. ALL OF THEM. HAPPILY EVER AFTER. THE END.

Thank you.

All my love and gratitude,

L.M.

**EDIT: Epilogue to come. Maybe. Probably... Maybe. Eventually. Yes. I think so. Yes. :D


End file.
